The White Cliffs Of Dover
by The Irish Chauffeur
Summary: June 1940: the Second World War has begun and the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Everything the Bransons, the Crawleys, and the Schonborns hold dear is now threatened with destruction, by war and by invasion. The last of my seven stories, preceded by "Home Is Where The Heart Is", "Reunion", "The Rome Express", "Rain, Steam, And Speed", "Summer of '39", and "The Snow Waltz".
1. Chapter 1

**The White Cliffs Of Dover**

Chapter One

The Chauffeur's Daughter

" _What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of_ perverted _science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, "This was their finest hour."_

Winston S. Churchill, Prime Minister, House of Commons, 18th June 1940.

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, June 1940.**

"Father, did you hear on the radio, what Mr. Churchill said, in the House of Commons today?" asked Robert.

His father turned and then smiled at his eldest son. There was a moment's pause before the earl of Grantham answered and then, when he did so, it was almost hesitantly, as if Matthew was quoting from memory.

"What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over, the Battle of Britain is about to begin?" asked his father. "Yes, Robert, I did. Eventually. When, at last, I finally got back up here from the Estate Office".

On hearing his words, Mary shot her husband a fond look. Even if these days his hair was a little thinner, Matthew was still a fine figure of a man. In Tom's very own words, _to be sure_. Nevertheless, what with one thing and another, Mary thought that Matthew was working himself far too hard. Since the war had begun in earnest, some days she hardly saw anything of him. He was often up soon after dawn, out in all weathers and sometimes did not return back here to the abbey until just before dinner. When she had suggested he was doing too much, he had looked her coolly in the eye and asked if he didn't do what needed to be done, then who else would do it?

Mary glanced over at Tom and Sybil.

To all intents and purposes, down the years, since they married neither had changed very much but, as with them all, the signs were there nonetheless. There were lines on Tom's forhead which hadn't been there before and since the birth of their last child, little Dermot now aged eight, hopefully fast asleep up in the old nursery at the top of the house, Sybil had never quite shed the extra weight she had put on. There were flecks of grey in her hair too; in her own as well, if the truth was told. No, none of them were getting any younger. And now, of all things, this bloody, bloody war!

For his part, Robert grinned recognising the slight hesitation for what it was; a pause for effect only and nothing more than that. After all, his father's faculty for remembering all kinds of things was well known; second only to that of Uncle Tom. The more so, where his father was concerned, with all manner of matters appertaining to the Downton Abbey estate where Papa's knowledge, of the tenants, of births, of marriages and of deaths, of the half dozen or so farms, of alterations and repairs, of crop yields, and of all the other minutiae, was well nigh encyclopaedic. With the sun at last now beginning to set, Robert saw his father glance wistfully out of the Drawing Room window, at the Supermarine Spitfire parked on the expanse of green lawn directly opposite the south front of the abbey.

To Matthew it didn't seem more than a handful of years ago that he had watched both his sons, Robert and Simon, out there on that same lawn, playing at Cowboys and Indians. Now Robert was a man grown, last year, deaf to his parents' entreaties, having deferred his entry to Oxford, he had instead taken a short term commission in the Royal Air Force and was now fighting for his country;having first seen action in the skies over Dunkirk but a matter of weeks ago. Simon was only two years younger than Robert. What if this damned war lasted more than a couple of years? After all, back in 1914 they had been naive enough to believe that they would all be home for Christmas.

And look at what had then happened.

Four years of unparalleled slaughter and countless millions dead, maimed or missing. So how had it come down to this? History repeating itself. This time not because of the vain glorious pretensions of some gilded idiot like the Kaiser now living out his life in exile in the Netherlands or the last Tsar shot to death along with all his family by the Bolsheviks but all because of the over weening ambitions of that power hungry, jumped up, bloody little corporal over there in Germany, along with that bull necked, goggle eyed Mussolini in Italy. Swaggering upstarts the pair of them; the words were Friedrich's, not his own but, for all that, they were perfectly apt. Thank God Mary and his two youngest had been born girls; Becky just thirteen and little Emily, born in the summer of 1935 and aged but five years old. Masking his emotions, Matthew turned and smiled at his eldest son.

"Very impressive, I must say!"  
"What the 'plane?" asked Robert. "Great turn of speed, guvnor; Merlin engine, 360 mph tops!"

"Feck no! You daft bugger!"

"Danny! Mind your language, please! This isn't the Brazen Head. For once, do try and remember where you are and also who else is present!" With some degree of exasperation, Sybil, who was seated on the sofa next to Danny's father looked up at their eldest son, shook her head in disbelief, and then nodded pointedly in the direction of Danny's grandmother.

"All right Ma!" The young man sighed. Then, thoroughly unabashed, Danny grinned happily down at his pretty, dark haired mother; the same endearing lopsided grin possessed of his own father and which when worn by either Tom or their eldest son was always guaranteed to melt her heart.

"What your Da really means, Rob, is that he's most impressed that you didn't manage to splatter yourself and that ruddy thing of yours all over the front of the abbey!" laughed Danny now digging his English cousin and best friend gently in the ribs.

Robert laughed.

"Armament's pretty good too. Four machine guns...," he began. Across the room, Matthew now saw Mary blanche. Silently he shook his head at his son and then deftly changed the subject.

"Whiskey, old chap?"

"Thanks, guvnor, don't mind if I do!".

"Danny? What about you? It's not Jameson, I'm afraid. Will Glenturret be all right?"

Danny chuckled.

"Uncle Matthew, when have you ever heard an Irishman ever refuse a whiskey? Even from north of the Scottish border. For sure! And thanks!"

Over the rim of their cut glass tumblers Danny's and Robert's eyes met in a silent salute. At this precise moment, given all the particular circumstances of which most in this room, were for the present entirely and blissfully ignorant, whiskey, whether Irish or Scottish, was just what they both needed.

* * *

It had been earlier the previous day when, late in the afternoon, shortly after Barrow had served them tea, but before the arrival of the Bransons from Ireland, on hearing close at hand the roar of an aeroplane directly overhead, that Mary, countess of Grantham and her second son Simon, Robert's younger brother, had both come running out onto the gravel at the front of the abbey. They were just in time to see the same aircraft doing what Mary recognised immediately as a Victory Roll right over the roofs of the great house.

Shortly thereafter, in a precisely executed manoeuvre, the very same aeroplane had landed on the wide sweep of manicured lawn in front of the abbey, drawing neatly to a stop at the very edge of the gravel. A moment later, the cockpit slid back and, evidently having already pulled off his flying helmet, a fair haired pilot clambered out. Dropping lithely down from off the wing, divesting himself of both his goggles and gloves as he made his way towards them, a young man had sauntered nonchalantly across the grass to where both mother and son were still standing.

"Hallo, Mama!" he laughed. A moment later and Robert, who now topped Mary in height, had drawn his mother into a bone crushing bear hug of an embrace.

"Oh, darling, do put me down!"" cried Mary who, still never one to show her emotions, at least not in public, was fighting back tears of happiness.

"Hi, Si!" The two brothers embraced.

Simon then drew back, smiled and nodded towards the now stationary aeroplane.

"Hello Rob. Well, I have to hand it to you, old chap, your arrivals are never short of spectacular!"

Not that at the time Simon Crawley could have known anything about what was to happen that evening but this time his elder brother's homecoming would prove to be far more spectacular than any one of them in the family could ever have begun to imagine.

Robert grinned.

"Do you know, Si, I don't think I could have put it better myself".

* * *

"Darling, when do you have to go back?" asked Mary, fighting a wave of conflicting emotions, of fear, of pride, of a mother's love for her son and trying desperately to keep her voice sounding neutral.

"In the morning, Mama. When I said I was coming up, the skipper said I could bring the kite but only so long as I'm back at Croydon by tomorrow afternoon".

Once again, Matthew eyed the stationary Spitfire through the window; this time on seeing what he saw, he shook his head and sighed. No doubt old Alf' Bates, the Head Gardener, would have a thing or two to say about those tyre tracks. Although on reflection, perhaps it didn't really matter that much. What with the constant demands being made upon the estate by the Ministry of Agriculture to turn every available acre over to the production of crops, it was likely that the green expanse of lawn in front of the abbey would, like the cricket field over beyond Home Farm, soon be under the plough. And as for this useless great house, most of the rooms were already shut up and the domestic staff reduced to a shadow of what it had once been. Of course Barrow had been furious but then this house was his life and he had nowhere else to go. And it would have happened sooner or later, war or no war. Living life the way it had been lived here before the Great War was no longer an option. Matthew sighed again. He had yet to tell Mary about the letter he had received.

"Have you heard anything more from Edith?" asked Cora clearly hopeful that she would hear that they had indeed done so. But in this, she was to be sorely disappointed.  
"No, Mama. I'm sorry we haven't. Not since her telephone call here three days ago. According to Matthew, the line from France was pretty bad. It was a miracle that she was able to get through at all. Do, please, try not to worry".

Mary smiled and patted her mother's knee re-assuringly, knowing that whatever she said their mother, Cora Dowager Countess of Grantham now aged nearly eighty and increasingly frail since her mild stroke the previous year, would always fret if anyone of them was in any kind of danger, real or only perceived. In this case however, the danger was all too real.

"I'll try not to". Cora smiled.

"Mama! Look, I know I've suggested it before but why don't you come back and live here, with us? Matthew and I would be delighted if you would. There's plenty of space and the girls will love having you around".

"Thank you my darling. I know you mean well but no. This was the house your father brought me to as a young bride, where we made our home, where you girls were born. But even now, nearly ten years on, I could never come back here to live. It just wouldn't feel right when your father isn't ..."

"We could always up sticks and move in with you at the Dower House," suggested Matthew. "At least for the duration".

Mary shook her head emphatically.

"Matthew, I've said it before and I'll say it again. The earl and countess of Grantham reside at Downton Abbey. That's how it's always been, that's how it will remain and there's an end of it".

Matthew shook his head.

That might well be how things had always been but he knew that the time was fast approaching when they would all have to face up to the kind of changes none of them could ever have expected. Largely thanks to his careful husbandry, the Downton Abbey estate was in far better shape than most of those that remained in the locality but whether it would survive the demands made upon it by this war remained to be seen. The army had already commandeered Monks' Wood down by the main road, felled the timber and put up a rash of Nissen huts to provide barracks for an influx of soldiers for whom there was no room in the barracks in and around Ripon. That had been the start of it and now, just last week, had come that letter. He was dreading telling Mary that in all likelihood they would have to give up this house too so that it could be turned into a military hospital and this time around one for all ranks, not a convalescent home for ... how was it Tom had termed it all those years ago? Oh, yes! For randy officers.

"So where on earth are they all now, Matthew? I mean Edith, Friedrich and the boys?" asked Tom. "You didn't say at dinner. By the way, Mary, before we go up tonight I think either Sybil or I should go down and thank Mrs. Bastow. Given the circumstances, that was a truly excellent meal".

Mary smiled.

"Thank you, Tom. Yes, it was, wasn't it? From what I've heard, I'm given to understand that it's Mrs. Bastow's son we should be thanking. Apparently, he's quite the dab hand at finding all manner of things which, given the blasted rationing over here, would otherwise be completely unobtainable and from a variety of sources too. Although it's my considered opinion that it's best not to enquire too closely as to where they all come from!"

Tom chuckled. The thought of his aristocratic sister-in-law blithely eating blacket market food was too funny for words.

"It's not that much different back in Ireland, what with the Emergency. All kinds of food are rationed. Fuel's short too. Both petrol for cars and peat for fires. They've been stockpiling turves and digging allotments in Phoenix Park too. Mind you, now that Danny's moved into town, Bobby and Dermot have taken over his vegetable garden behind the house so at least we won't starve!"

"Turves?" Mary sounded nonplussed.

"Turves of peat. You remember, I told you. To burn on the fire. Dried turves of peat are our staple fuel.

"Rebecca's been doing the same here too, in the kitchen garden with Robert's old patch. Emily says she helps although I think she just sits and watches. Doesn't like getting her hands dirty that one. A bit like me I suppose!" She laughed. "God knows where either Robert or Rebecca get their love of the soil from. Certainly not from me. Perhaps it's something to do with Matthew's obsession with the estate. Mind you, as far as food goes, we're better off than some round here".

"Well, no need to worry, Mary. After all, we've already eaten whatever could have been used in evidence against us from tonight's meal! So no case to answer, for sure! Now, what news is there about Edith, Friedrich and the two boys? Where precisely are they?"

Matthew smiled, shook his head, and spread his hands expansively.

"God knows! From what she said to me on the telephone, Tom, and, as Mary's already said, the line was bloody dreadful, they'd been making for the coast over towards St. Nazaire. Apparently, someone in our embassy in Paris told them that some kind of evacuation of military personnel, our chaps, the Czechs and the Poles too, as well as civilians, was about to get under way from several of the French ports on the west coast. When she telephoned, Edith said they'd already managed to reach the outskirts of Nantes. Then we were cut off. Mind you, I heard a rumour doing the rounds that the Lancastria sailed from Liverpool a matter of days ago to help with the evacuation. I don't know how true that is or what good it will do them. After Dunkirk, everything over there is in complete shambles. A right bloody mess from all accounts".

"And what if they don't make it, father? What then?" asked Robert nervously.

"Of course they'll make it, Rob. You know Aunt Edith! It'll take more than a few bloody Nazis and their bombs to stop her!" Danny smiled. So too did Sybil and for once she forbore to criticise her dearly loved eldest son's use of yet another expletive.

Both of the young men had a very high opinion of the practical capabilities of their Aunt Edith whose exploits throughout the 20s and 30s in the Near East, in Egypt, in Palestine and in what was now called the Hashemite Kingdom of Iraq, had passed into the annals of Branson and Crawley family folklore. Her two nephews present here this evening in the Drawing Room of Downton Abbey both loved her dearly and considered their aunt to be intelligent, sophisticated, worldly wise and as far as they were concerned, well nigh indestructible.

"Anyway," continued Matthew, "before we were cut off, your aunt said there was some shelling and that if they didn't make it on board one of the ships, then they'll continue driving as far south as they possibly could in their motor, hopefully all the way down to Biarritz, where they have friends, and then try and make it over the Pyrenees and the border into neutral Spain".

"And just how on earth do they propose doing that for sure?" asked Tom glancing over his shoulder while refilling his glass from the decanter of whiskey.

"Knowing Friedrich and Edith, given the fact they both know how to fly, I wouldn't put it past them to try and commandeer a 'plane from somewhere!" laughed Sybil trying somewhat to lighten the sombreness of the mood.

"What? With young Max and little Kurt in tow? Don't be bloody ridiculous!" snapped Mary. This whole business was beginning to get to her so much so that her head was starting to throb ominously, a sure sign that she was about to suffer one of her migraines. Putting her fingers to her temples, she grimaced and shook her head. "Matthew, do you really have to do that now?"

"Darling, the daylight's already going. The blackout remember," he said gently continuing with the business of closing and latching the shutters of the window nearest to him.

"Here, I'll help you". Tom rose and crossed to the adjacent window and likewise began to close the shutters.

"Thanks".

"Max will be fine. You'll see, they all will. And God help any German storm troopers who get in Edith's way. She'll make mincemeat out of them!" laughed Tom now sitting back down on the sofa next to Sybil.

"Mary, darling, in case you've forgotten, Max is seventeen now..."

"Yes, but he's still... delicate. And little Kurt..." In mounting disbelief, once again, Mary shook her head. God knows what dear, dead Papa would have made of all of this; any of it.

"Mary, are you all right?" asked Sybil.

"No, not really. I think I'm getting one of my damned heads. If you don't mind, if it doesn't improve and soon, I think I'll go upstairs and lie down".

"No, of course not. By all means go up, if you feel you need to do so".

Standing by the fireplace, Danny, dapper in his silk tie and lounge suit, and Robert, smart in his uniform of a Pilot Officer with the Royal Air Force, now did their very best not to laugh. Sadly there was still as yet no cure for Max's haemophilia. However, having had several serious bleeds, the worst of which had occurred when he suffered a severe nosebleed as the family had fled Austria in the wake of the Anschluss, their dearly loved cousin Max had made it through the dangerous years of his childhood relatively unscathed.

The last time his Irish and English cousins had seen him had been the previous summer, in July 1939, when the Bransons and the Crawleys had all been on a visit to Uncle Friedrich and Aunt Edith and their two sons at La Rosière the small moated château they owned which lay close to Nantes and stood on the north bank of the Loire. Kurt was then only seven but for his part Max was a strapping, sixteen year old, sandy haired blue eyed youth; almost the same height as his father Friedrich and, thanks to his mother's patient tuition, a crack shot. So, despite his precarious health, for anyone to describe him as _delicate_ did seem faintly ridiculous.

With Rosenberg having been confiscated by the Nazis, it had been assumed by everyone in the family that the Schőnborns would settle in Switzerland, at least for the duration of the war, where Friedrich also had property. Instead, quite unexpectedly, they had moved to La Rosière, with its pepper pot towers and steep slate roofs standing on the banks of the Loire, a magical place of great beauty; or as Sybil described it one summer's evening with Tom beside her, his arm around her waist, both of them standing gazing at the distant château, a fairy tale castle come to life.

But reality has an unpleasant habit of intruding upon fairy tales.

It came to La Rosière and the family living there gradually, almost by stealth, in the form of the Munich Crisis, the annexation by Germany of what remained of Czechoslovakia, the pact between Germany and the Soviet Union, the German invasion of Poland and finally the declaration of war against Germany by both Britain and France. With the Russians having attacked Finland and then occupied the Baltic States, Germany then launched an invasion of Denmark and Norway followed by an attack on the Low Countries. With the German invasion of France and the British evacuation from Dunkirk, Edith and Friedrich realised that for the sake of their boys and also for themselves that finally, at the eleventh hour, with the enemy almost at the gates, they were now left with no choice but to somehow try and escape from German occupied France.

"Well, that maybe," conceded Cora. "But even so, Kurt is only eight years old. The same age as Dermot. He's just a little boy".

"And, unlike some I could mention, he thinks the world of his older brother!" added Danny. He nudged Robert in the ribs. "Has Si forgiven us yet?" he asked with a chuckle and a knowing wink to Robert who, now recalling what had happened the previous summer at La Rosière, promptly burst out laughing.

Danny and Robert's present amusement centred on the fate that had so nearly befallen Oscar, Simon's old, decidedly moth-eaten, and much loved teddy bear. Having been warned by Danny's twelve year old brother Bobby, who had seen what was afoot from one of the upstairs windows of the château, aged almost sixteen, Simon had hot footed it outside; to find Oscar sitting sedately out in the sunshine on top of the wall of the moat amidst the broken, shattered fragments of a row of empty wine bottles which Danny and Robert, under the expert tutelage of Max, were using for target practice with their Austrian cousin's new hunting rifle. When Simon arrived on the scene, only one bottle remained intact, with poor little Oscar being snatched from the jaws of death by his owner at the very last minute; the evidence and manner of his demise which would otherwise have been lost forever in the murky depths of the moat at La Rosière.

"So just what do you propose they do then, Mama? Surrender to the Nazis? You know what that would mean for Friedrich. And God knows what would happen to Edith and the boys. They'd probably be sent to one of Herr Hitler's concentration camps!" exclaimed Sybil.

Cora gasped.

"They wouldn't dare do that, surely?"  
"Don't count on it!" Sybil shook her head. Sometimes she thought her mother lived in another world.

"It's all right, Mama. That won't happen," soothed Mary reassuringly. "If it comes to it, if I have to, I'll sail over there myself in the Skylark. Anything to fetch them all home, safe and sound".

Robert smiled, thinking back to a hot summer's day several years ago, when he was sixteen years old, and his mother had asked him if he would teach her how to sail. To begin with, Robert wasn't sure if he had heard her correctly. But no, it turned out that his aristocratic mother was serious and the following day, she had appeared at the boathouse at the agreed hour, dressed in a headscarf and wearing trousers for the very first time. As memory stirred, Robert smiled again. Mama had proved an avid pupil and had taken to sailing like a duck to water; which was just as well as there had been several spills in the first few weeks. The sight of his normally elegant mother trudging beside him back to the great house soaked to the skin, as had once happened to his dearly loved grandfather, was something which he would never forget.

Oddly enough, at the time, he had never asked her why it was she wanted to learn how to sail. Perhaps that had been to do with the fact that even then their relationship had still been rather formal. Not that he ever doubted that Mama loved him; he knew she did. However, unlike Danny's parents, it was not until after their trip to the Continent in the summer of 1932 when they had all stayed in a villa overlooking Florence, that his mother had become much better at expressing her maternal feelings, both towards himself, his brother and their sisters. It was only some time later that Robert thought he finally understood the real reason which had lain behind his mother's otherwise inexplicable request made to him in the summer of 1936 that he teach her how to sail. Grandps had loved sailing with his grandsons out on the lake at Downton and Robert suspected that it was in the Skylark that his mother felt herself closer to her late father than anywhere else on the estate.

"Tom, do you want another snifter?" asked Matthew.

"For sure".

"Robert?"

"Thank you Papa".

"Danny?"  
"For sure!"

"Where's Saiorse?" asked Sybil looking at her watch. "Her shift down at the Cottage Hospital ended well over an hour ago".

Their daughter's decision, to follow her mother into nursing, had taken both Tom and Sybil completely by surprise, just as on the family's return from France, where they had been staying with the Crawleys at Friedrich and Edith's château beside the Loire, had Saiorse's announcement that she wanted to continue her training over here in England, at Leeds General Infirmary. The reason Saiorse had given was that she wanted to succeed on her own merits rather than by appearing to hang onto her mother's coat tails. After all, Danny, who had followed in the footsteps of both his father and his cousin Padraig and gone into journalism was finding it inordinately difficult to shrug off the fact that his father was Tom Branson, Deputy Editor of the Irish Independent. Besides which, as Saiorse pointed out, she would not be far from Downton Abbey and, if ever she needed a bolthole, she could always ring up Uncle Matthew and Aunt Mary. Not that so far she had done so but it was early days yet.

As arranged, Saiorse had met them on the platform at Leeds where they had all boarded the York train and then travelled onto Downton together with Saiorse explaining that she had arranged to go down to the Cottage Hospital that evening before coming on up to the abbey. It was an opportunity to see, at close quarters, the workings of a small local infirmary.

"Don't fret love!" Tom smiled. "I expect she's stopped off for a chat with young Joe down at Home Farm. She said that she was going to drop in on the Morstons".

"Do you think she's sweet on him?" Sybil laughed.

"Perhaps!" Tom chuckled. "No, if there was anyone special, I'm sure we'd have heard about him long ago".

At Tom's words, Cora smiled. How different the world was now from what it had once been; her Irish grand daughter unchaperoned casually "dropping in" to see a young man, the son of one of her English son-in-law's tenants.

"And where precisely is Rebecca?" asked Mary.

"I told her she could stay up for an extra hour," said Matthew. He smiled.

"Did you now?" Mary lofted an eyebrow. "That still doesn't tell me where she..."

"In the Billiards Room. Playing snooker with Simon and Bobby," said Danny.

"Really?" asked his aunt with another lift of her ever expressive eyebrows. Sometimes, in fact more often than not, Mary despaired of her young daughter who, now aged thirteen had all the makings of a tomboy. Despite Sybil having reassured her that Rebecca would grow out of the phase just as had Saiorse, Mary was not so sure.

Tom stood up and joined his brother-in-law standing by the fireplace.

"So, Rob, what was it you wanted to say to us that you couldn't say over dinner?" asked his uncle.

"Well, there's something I do have to tell you ..." began Robert.

"Yes, I think we gathered that," said Matthew.

It was then that the door to the Drawing Room opened and as it did so, it seemed to Sybil that a faint sigh ran round the room and for one brief moment it was almost as if there were two others with them here in the room.

"Ah there you are!" exclaimed Tom.

Saiorse smiled but didn't answer her father. Instead, she remained standing by the door.

"I'm here," she said.

"So I can see," replied Matthew and as he did so it was now that, quite unexpectedly, Robert crossed the room to stand beside Saiorse.

"I don't think this is such a good idea. We mustn't worry Granny," he whispered.

"You asked me to come and I've come".

"Will someone please tell me what is going on?" asked Cora, somewhat peremptorily.

"Granny has as much right to know as anybody else," said Saiorse, taking firm hold of Robert's hand.

"Why don't I find that reassuring?" asked the Dowager Countess.

 **Author's Note:**

The Brazen Head is Dublin's oldest public house.

Croydon was one of the airfields which played a major part in the Battle of Britain.

The Emergency is the name given in Ireland to the Second World War. While the republic remained neutral during the conflict its citizens found themselves subject to many of the same privations as those of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, including rationing of both food and fuel.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"Clear Away The Boats!"

 **St. Nazaire, western coast of France, 17** **th** **June 1940.**

It was just after twelve o'clock on what, in normal circumstances, would otherwise have been a beautiful summer's day.

All that morning, which had dawned cool and bright, the sky had throbbed with the sound of enemy aircraft. A moment later and here in St. Nazaire the air raid siren wailed mournfully once again; warning of yet another attack by German bombers. While those gathered on the quayside gazed fearfully at the sky for any sign of incoming enemy aircraft, heavy palls of thick black smoke continued to drift slowly over the town; much of it from the harbour installations, blown up by the hard pressed defenders so as to deny their use to the advancing Germans.

Diving and wheeling in the sky above their heads, the screeching seagulls were proving particularly bothersome. However, far more deafening, was the continued crump of heavy shells being fired in quick succession from British and French artillery; the gunners trying desperately to stem the advance of the oncoming tide of the German army, units of which were rapidly closing in on St. Nazaire from both the north and from the east. A moment later and there came a series of enormous explosions as ammunition, fuel, and oil dumps were detonated. For no-one waiting here on the quay, among them the Schőnborns, was under any illusion whatsoever that it was only a matter of time before the Germans routed what remained of the British and French forces, broke through to the coast, and captured both the port and town of St. Nazaire.

With what little luggage they had been permitted to bring with them, no more than a suitcase each, along with countless others, Friedrich, Edith and their two sons stood waiting nervously in line, all of them refugees desperate to escape the German advance which had swept like lightning right across northern France almost as far as the west coast of the country. Waiting with them were staff from the British Embassy in Paris, men, women and children, soldiers and sailors in uniform, many of the soldiers members of the Royal Pioneer Corps and from the Royal Army Service Corps, others who were Czech or else Polish, Royal Air Force personnel, along with British employees of Fairey Aviation from Belgium, and countless other civilians. All hoping and praying that, against the odds stacked heavily against them, somehow the German advance would be checked. Not stopped but held long enough to enable them to board the flotilla of ships and small boats which had been pressed into service to ferry them all out across the bay to the large passenger liners which had been commandeered by the British government and sent here in order to rescue as many refugees as possible from St. Nazaire before the inevitable happened and the town finally fell to the Germans.

Unfortunately, the port here was not deep enough for the liners to draw in any closer. So, in the ensuing scramble to evacuate all those who could be got away from St. Nazaire, while destroyers from the Royal Navy were constantly engaged ferrying troops away from the harbour, anything and everything else that was available and serviceable, barges, tugs, even fishing boats and smacks, was being used as lighters to rescue anyone else.

According to what they had been told, the ship the Schőnborns were destined to board and which they, along with everyone else, could see out there beyond the outer walls of the harbour, lying at anchor in the deeper waters of the bay, was the RMS Lancastria. If everything went according to plan, they would soon be on board her and on their way to safety in England. If Edith remembered correctly it was the very same ship on which Papa and Mama had sailed to America back in 1925, on a visit to Grandmama Levinson in New York. Even so, if it was the same steamer, in her present drab coat of battleship grey, the liner presented a very different appearance from how Edith recalled her, a lifetime ago, standing beside Matthew and Mary on the quay in Liverpool, waving their parents off on their trans-Atlantic voyage.

How, had it come down to this?

Having to flee their home for a second time in the space of but two years?

While she didn't have the answer to either question, the most important thing was that they were alive and were together. It was said that the darkest hour was just before dawn and Edith had no doubt that somehow the four of them would survive this too; that in years to come they would look back and laugh at their present trials and tribulations. After all, they had faced far worse with Max and his haemophilia and, while he was not and never would be cured, by taking good care of himself, he could, thank God, lead a relatively normal life. And they had been blessed with young Kurt born fit and healthy and free from the taint of the disease; a happy, laughing little boy so similar in temperament to Tom and Sybil's Bobby now aged thirteen. And thank God too for darling Matthew who, pressed by dearest Tom over the urgency of their situation, had used his influence and his contacts at the Foreign Office to pull strings and exert pressure on the British embassy in Vienna; to try and enable Friedrich to be issued with a British passport along with various other documents shortly before the whole family had to flee from Austria in the immediate aftermath of the Anschluss. By the time the Nazis had come calling at Rosenberg, they were all safely out of the country and living peacefully at La Rosière.

While the Schőnborns continued to wait on the quayside, inching forward at a veritable snail's pace towards the head of the steps leading down to the water's edge, suddenly Edith found herself recalling to mind a passage from Margaret Mitchell's novel, _Gone With The Wind_ , describing Atlanta under relentless shell fire from the advancing Yankees and everyone who could do so trying to make good their escape from General Sherman and his encircling Union army, among them both Rhett Butler and Scarlett O'Hara:

"Take a good look my dear. It's a historic moment. You can tell your grandchildren about how you watched the Old South fall one night".

Edith had read the book several years ago when they were still living at Rosenberg; had heard that a film of it had been released a few months ago in the United States. She was struck by the similarity between what had happened to those in Atlanta in September 1864 and what was now occurring here in St. Nazaire in June 1940. In Atlanta, its citizens had been painfully aware that the Union army was closing in on the town; could hear the shell fire from Kennesaw Mountain. Here in St. Nazaire, no-one could fail to hear the thunder of artillery and the crackle of small arms fire. While for the moment the Germans were still some distance away, it was only a matter of time before they reached and then took the town. Nonetheless, for the present, those waiting here on the quayside in the warm sunshine did their very best not to listen to the incessant shelling, tried instead to make light of their situation, to chatter, to laugh and to carry on as normal. Even so, there was no denying the fact that the seeming calm was deceptive and that panic lay just below the surface.

While this was another war, waged on a different Continent, in essence, thought Edith, it was not so very different here in St. Nazaire from what it must have been like for those fleeing from Atlanta during the American Civil War. For having been left with no choice but to leave La Rosière, much as in _Gone With The Wind_ Honey and India Wilkes had been forced to flee from Twelve Oaks to the comparative safety of Macon, so too the Schőnborns had pressed on for several days and nights, in their case along the north bank of the Loire, to reach first Nantes, and now the temporary sanctuary of the harbour at St. Nazaire.

Their journey had been an absolute nightmare but with Friedrich insisting on driving the motor, at least Edith had been left free to do her very best to shield young Kurt from the worst of what they saw unfolding all about them. The roads were crowded with civilian refugees, young, middle aged and old, men, women and children, most travelling on foot, a goodly number of whom were pushing before them on hand carts the pitiful remnants of what yet remained of their worldly possessions. There were soldiers and sailors too, the able bodied, along with the the sick and the wounded, mixed up with all manner of transport: convoys of army trucks and lorries, private motor cars, horse drawn carts, and bicycles, all heading westwards and with the ever present threat of being machine gunned, strafed or bombed from the air.

Here on the quay, just as the Schőnborns reached the head of the steps, while the shellfire continued unabated, the All Clear sounded, heralding a brief, temporary breathing space from attack from the air. The two British sailors standing at the foot of the steps now nodded and Friedrich, Edith and the boys made their way carefully down the wet, slimy steps to the waiting fishing boat. As Max and Kurt clambered aboard, Edith squeezed Friedrich's hand and smiled. He nodded and grinned at her; this remarkable woman whom he had married in Florence in the summer of 1932 while they, along with Matthew, Mary, Tom, Sybil and all their children, had been staying at a villa up in the hills overlooking the city. Friedrich loved her so very dearly; was inordinately proud of her. When, in March 1938, with the Anschluss he had told Edith that they had no choice but to leave Austria and the splendours of Rosenberg behind them, and now but a matter of days ago the beauty of La Rosière too, she had raised no objection; had not seemed to mind in the least. She had simply nodded her head.

"Much as I love Rosenberg, nothing matters more to me than you and our two boys".

She had said very much the same thing to him when, jointly, they had made the decision to leave La Rosière. People were what mattered to her most; not possessions. Things; things she could do without. And after all what was a mansion, a chateau, if not a possession? In any event none of that mattered now; the die was cast and in a very short space of time they would all have boarded the Lancastria and be on their way across the sea to safety in England.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, 18th June 1940.**

"What do you mean you knew?" Tom sounded aghast. He looked from his eldest son to Matthew and then shook his head in disbelief. "Matthew, I don't know what to say. I …"

Matthew smiled; shook his head.

"It's all right, Tom. Robert, I rather think, young man, that you have some explaining to do, don't you?"  
Robert nodded.

"We would have told you earlier, father but ..." He smiled happily at Saiorse.

"So why didn't you?" asked Matthew with remarkable forebearance.

"Well, we thought ..."

"Thought what?"

"Da, what I mean is ...," began Danny. He sounded mortified; never before had he seen the expression which he now saw on his father's face; a mixture of both sadness and utter disbelief.

"Well son, either you knew about all of this or else you didn't! Which is it for sure?" demanded Tom.

Danny looked helplessly first at Robert and then at his sister both of whom, hand in hand, were still standing defiantly by the Drawing Room door. Danny swallowed hard. He knew Da hated deceit; said that honesty was always the best policy and so with that in mind, whatever it might cost him later, when now he answered his father Danny did so directly. He drew himself up, looked straight at his father and spoke the plain, simple truth.

"Yes, Da. I knew. Of course I did. Saiorse's my sister and I love her dearly. And Rob's my best friend too. Just as Uncle Matthew is yours. Of course I knew".

"But you still didn't think to say anything about it, either to your Ma or to me?" persisted Tom. He was beginning to feel slightly light headed; was aware of a slight pain in his chest. Perhaps he would feel better if he sat down and so he did so; beside Sybil on the sofa next to the fireplace.

"What was there to tell you, Da?" asked Danny. "I knew they'd fallen in love and wanted to get married; that they would tell you, all of you, in their own good time".

"That's what we intended, father," said Robert.

"For sure?" Tom nodded. He smiled weakly at both his nephew and his daughter. The pain in his side did not seem to be easing. In fact, if anything, it was growing worse.  
"Yes, for sure, Uncle Tom. And then..."

"And then what?" asked Matthew. But before Robert could answer him, Sybil interrupted.

"So I suppose young lady that's why you wanted to do your nursing training over here in England as opposed to back home in Dublin?" Despite the constant pain in his chest, Tom shot Sybil a fond glance; even now after all these years when she referred to Dublin as home it made his heart swell with pride.

Saiorse said nothing; instead, while Robert continued to hold her hand with her other folded demurely across her belly, she looked steadfastly at the floor.

"You won't find the answer down there!" snapped Sybil. Saiorse now slowly raised her head, looked mutinously at her mother.

"Rob and I love each other and that' s all there is to it!"

"Oh no it isn't young lady! Not by a long way You go sneaking about behind our backs ... Tom are you all right?"

"For sure!" he nodded. "Just a touch of indigestion!"  
"I'm not surprised! And as for you ..."

"For God's sake Ma! Don't be like this".  
"Don't be like what?"

"Don't be so bloody Victorian!"

At her daughter's words Sybil shot Mary a sudden knowing glance; saw that in that very same instant her sister too was remembering back to something which had happened over twenty years before, in the aftermath of the beating Tom had received at the hands of the Dublin Metropolitan Police.

* * *

 **The Shelbourne Hotel, Dublin, Ireland, June 1919.**

Having bathed the cuts to Tom's, Sybil busied herself helping him out of his jacket, deftly unbuttoned his waistcoat, removed that too, along with his tie, and then began undoing the buttons of his shirt. Edith gasped.

"Sybil, surely you don't mean to ..."

"Oh for goodness' sake Edith, don't be such a goose. You helped out with the soldiers in the convalescent home at Downton during the war, didn't you?"

"Well, yes, but that was different. I was only fetching them books, writing letters, that sort of thing".

"For Heaven's sake, I've seen Tom in a great deal less than this!" exclaimed Sybil as she helped Tom, now shirtless, into a sitting position. Deftly raising his arms above his head while supporting his back she pulled off his vest. Realising what she had just said, Sybil coloured red, Mary raised an expressive eyebrow while Edith looked suitably embarrassed by their sister's startling revelation.

"Tom and I have no secrets from each other. We love each other dearly," said Sybil as she continued stripping Tom of his vest. A moment later and she gasped in horror at the rapidly darkening bruises and raw grazes now revealed to view upon Tom's naked torso.

Hearing her rapid intake of breath, Tom glanced down at his bare chest.

"It's all right, love, it ... it looks... worse than it is" he wheezed through gritted teeth.

"No. No it isn't," sobbed Sybil beginning to bathe the grazes on his chest. "How on earth could anyone do this, to you, of all people?"

Having attended to all of Tom's grazes, with infinite care, ever so gently, Sybil began feeling his ribs.

"Sybil," said Mary softly, "do you really think you should be doing ..."

Sybil seemed not to hear her. Then she looked up. "I'm sorry, Mary. What did you just say?"

Mary nodded towards Tom, now stripped to the waist, submitting patiently to Sybil's gentle and probing ministrations. Mary's practised eye missed nothing, took in Tom's masculine physique, battered and bruised to be sure, but strong and muscular all the same; the light patch of hairs nestling in the middle of his chest, saw where the curling hairs darkened and thickened as they disappeared downwards out of view beneath the waistband of his trousers.

"Darling, I know you're engaged, but do you really think..."

"Oh for goodness' sake, Mary, look at me!" Sybil indicated her uniform with an angry wave of her hand. "I'm a nurse! Given what I saw during the war, do you really think this sort of thing bothers me? Besides, I've seen Tom naked several times!"

Sybil heard Edith's sharp intake of breath.

"Oh Edith, don't be so ... so bloody Victorian!" snapped Sybil, not bothering to look up; to make any attempt to hide her evident irritation with her elder sister.

For her part, Mary said nothing by way of response but the twitch of her expressive eyebrows said it all. Evidently her baby sister no longer but instead a woman of the world; or so Sybil would have them believe.

"In fact," said Sybil, "you both might as well know it, not of course that it's really any of your business, but since we arrived here in Ireland, Tom and I ... well we've slept together, as man and wife, not once but several times now. And before you ask, no, Tom didn't force himself upon me. We made love together because we wanted to; the both of us".

At this juncture, Mary raised her eyebrows once again; a wry smile flickered at the corners of her mouth; a woman of the world indeed then. Edith, meanwhile, looked anywhere else other than at Sybil, or for that matter, at Tom, whose face had just turned a shade akin to vermilion.

"I really don't know why we all make such a ruddy fuss about something so completely normal," continued Sybil in her no-nonsense tone. "After all, between two people who love each other as much as Tom and I do, it's a perfectly natural thing to do. There's no point pretending we come out of the rainbow when we're eighteen, so there's an end to it! I assume neither of you have heard of Marie Stopes?" Sybil glanced casually from Mary to Edith then back again. "No, I thought not. Well no matter," said Sybil briskly.

"Love, I think... you've just ... just managed ... to shock ... your sisters," croaked Tom and grinned.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, 18th June 1940.**

"Saiorse! Don't you dare swear at your Ma. Now, apologise to her this instant!" demanded Tom.

Knowing how she idolised her father, Sybil was not at all surprised when saw the colour flooding across her daughter's cheeks; saw too the engagement ring on the third finger of Saiorse's left hand.

"I'm sorry Ma". This was not how she had wanted this to be.

"So, you're engaged". This from Sybil. It was more a statement than a question.

"Engaged?" asked Cora questioningly who seemed not to quite to comprehend fully the sudden turn of events. "Who is?"

"Saiorse and I. We want to get married here, at Downton," explained Robert.

"Married!" gasped Mary. Dear God! What on earth was this world coming to? The next countess of Grantham; a chauffeur's daughter!

"And which, presumably, was why you came over to England a few weeks ago? And not for the interview, as you claimed, the one with the London paper you were so mysterious about?" asked Tom

Danny nodded his head.

"Yes, Da. I'm truly sorry. We all met up in a hotel in Liverpool, to talk things over". He saw the tears welling in his father's eyes and was the first of them to look away; realising just how hurt Da was. For her part, Sybil was watching Saiorse; saw how she held her left hand across the slight swell of her stomach and in that instant she knew.

"And when's the baby due?" Sybil asked quietly.

"Baby? What baby?" asked Mary dully, as, glancing at Saiorse, Matthew nodded his head in sudden understanding.

"Our baby, Mama," said Robert. "Saiorse's expecting my child".

"Expecting what?" asked Cora, evidently mystified.

"Saiorse," repeated Robert in a monotone.

" **Your** child?" exclaimed his mother.

"Yes".

With her head pounding, Mary looked utterly aghast. It was only now that she too saw the ring which Saiorse wore openly on her left hand, a magnificent sapphire, which had belonged to Mary's grandmother, the Dowager Countess of Grantham and which had been left to her in Granny's will. Mary had given it to Robert the previous year, telling him that when he found a girl he wanted to marry, if she approved of it, then it would do very well as an engagement ring.

"Yes, Aunt Mary. I'm expecting Robert's baby".

Mary ignored her niece completely.

"Robert, is this true?"  
"Yes, Mama".

"Then there's nothing more to be said. Now, if you will all excuse me, I think I need to lie down".

"Mama! Please!" Slowly Mary rose to her feet then shook her head. "Robert ... how could you ..." "she began but got no further with whatever it was she had been about to say as now Tom groaned audibly, clutched his chest, and slid from the sofa onto the floor.

"Tom, darling! What is it" Sybil was kneeling by him in an instant.

"My ..." he began, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

Sybil shot a beseeching look at Danny who seemed rooted to the spot as indeed did everyone else, all appalled by what had now happened.

"Don't just stand there! It's his heart! For God's sake, call the doctor!"

Danny didn't need to be told twice and bolted for the door.

* * *

 **RMS Lancastria, 3.30pm, 17th June 1940.**

Here, out in the Grand Charpentier Roads, some five miles from the shore, they had been on board the Lancastria for well over a couple of hours. However, while the loading of soldiers and refugees had long ceased as yet there was still no sign of the liner beginning to get underway even though the military situation was clearly worsening with every passing minute. As if to reinforce this, although neither of them said anything at all to Edith, both Friedrich and Max, who were standing by the ship's rail, saw the bodies of several soldiers floating nearby in the water, while from the distant shore there came the continued thud of shells and the sound of several further large explosions.

For her part, Edith was talking to Kurt and two small children, a brother and sister, apparently Belgian refugees, each of whom carried a dog in their arms. A moment later and an English woman, who evidently had some connection with the two children, now appeared and, thanking Edith for looking after them, promising that they would all meet up again in the evening, now shepherded the two Belgian children and their dogs down the nearby stairwell. Holding Kurt by the hand, Edith turned and looked out across the bay, over towards St. Nazaire, and saw that despite, or perhaps because of what was now happening, the sea was still filled with all manner of ships and small boats continuing to ferry out yet more troops to some of the other large vessels and which like the Lancastria were also still riding at anchor off shore in the bay.

Dispirited, Edith turned away from the ship's rail and looked about her. In every direction all she saw was a huddled mass of humanity - men, women and children. Most of those on board were soldiers, sweating in their khaki uniforms, the decks cluttered with their kit bags and tin helmets. It was now that an awful thought dawned on Edith; if the ship came under attack and the worst happened then, surely, there weren't enough lifeboats to accommodate all these thousands of people? At that, Edith felt herself grow very cold; found herself thinking of Patrick Crawley who, along with his father, had drowned in the sinking of the Titanic, a lifetime and another world ago. At the recollection, Edith shivered and seeing her do so, Friedrich hugged her to him.

"Mein liebling, don't worry. One of the crewmen told me that we will be under way very shortly. To England. Everything will be fine. Trust me. You'll see". Friedrich smiled at her then took his overcoat from off his arm and placed it around her shoulders. Not that Edith's fears were entirely misplaced. After all, they had already suffered a series of alarms.

About an hour or so earlier, not long after they had boarded the liner, having come up on deck from their cabin - somewhat cramped for the four of them but in the circumstances with so many on board it really didn't matter - crewmen suddenly began to blow whistles and the bells and claxons on the Lancastria started sounding. Thereafter, the escort vessels of the Royal Navy opened up with all their guns at an aeroplane coming in low out of the sun, so low that those on deck could see the pilot and the rest of its crew. The cry went up to take cover; that it was German bomber, the proof of this coming but a few moments later as a cluster of bombs fell from the belly of the plane and landed on the bridge of the SS Oronsay which belonged to the Orient Line, and which like the Lancastria, was riding at anchor in the bay.

There was a huge explosion and a cloud of debris towered into the air. As the smoke gradually cleared it became obvious to everyone that, despite what had happened, the Oronsay was now moving and putting out to sea; everyone here on board hoping that shortly the Lancastria would be following suit, the more so as a further clutch of bombs had then hit the Franconia. There were several further near misses from bombs dropped by other German aircraft which sent up fountains of spray which spattered the decks and soaked those nearby to the very skin. Thankfully, eventually, the bombers wheeled away eastwards and an eerie calm now descended but still the Lancastria did not move.

"Mama, I need a wee", wheedled Kurt seemingly unperturbed by what had been happening. He looked up at his mother pleadingly with his pair of blue eyes.

"Dummkopf! Why on earth didn't you go before, when we were ashore?" asked Max. He fondled Kurt's fair hair and grinned. He loved his little brother very much indeed.

"Dummkopf yourself! There wasn't a toilet. That's why, Schlaumeier!"

"Kurt! Language!"

"Sorry, Mama but he asked for it!"

"You could have gone behind that wall, near where we left the car," suggested Max.

"People might have seen my Pimmel," explained Kurt and promptly stuck out his tongue.

"What at your age? Nothing to see!" laughed Max.

Friedrich and Edith exchanged amused glances.

"Mama ... please?" begged Kurt hopping from one leg to the other.

"Oh, all right but just remember, when this war is over and I take you on one of my digs you'll have to get used to going out in the open!"  
"See, dummkopf!"  
"Don't start all that again! I'll take Kurt down to our cabin and then we'll come back up on deck. Now do take care the two of you and wait for us here".

Friedrich nodded and smiled.

"Of course. We'll both be here when you come back. Promise. Don't worry".

Edith smiled and taking Kurt by the hand they disappeared down the stairwell.

* * *

 **RMS Lancastria, 3.50pm, 17th June 1940.**

After Edith and Kurt had gone, Friedrich and Max did as they had promised and remained standing by the ship's rail, continuing to watch with interest what was happening out in the bay. About twenty minutes later and Max, who had retained his childhood interest in aircraft fostered by the fact that Friedrich had been a military pilot in the Austro-Hungarian air force during the Great War, grabbed his father hastily by the shoulder and pointed frantically up into the afternoon sky.

"Junckers! Junckers 88!" he yelled.

Those in the immediate hearing of the two men now raised their heads, then began to point too and just as anxiously at the incoming German aircraft. With realisation fast dawning as to what was about to happen, everyone on the top deck now did what, in similar circumstances, anyone else would have tried to do; they scattered, ran and took cover. Or rather they would have done, had any of those options been open to them. Only they weren't. For every single one of the seven decks of the Lancastria, all her cabins, her magnificent staterooms and enormous cargo holds were jammed with thousands of people, civilian refugees, men, women and children and all manner of military personnel, both able-bodied and wounded.

The pulsating throb of the incoming aircraft, now clearly audible, grew ever louder, while the Bren guns positioned at either end of the ship opened up with a veritable barrage of fire. One of the two bombers made for the Oronsay but the other flew straight over the entire 580 feet length of the Lancastria, dropping four bombs from stern to bow, one of which appeared to go straight down the massive single funnel. There followed several enormous explosions which rocked the Lancastria from end to end, blowing the hatches off two of the four huge holds, while from within the depths of the great ship there came a terrific, muffled roar. Here out on deck, as the Lancastria shook with the impact of the explosions, Friedrich and Max were witness to scenes of total panic, carnage, chaos, and confusion as bullets splintered the wooden decking, tore into flesh and bone, smashed glass, hit telegraphs, ricocheted off metal, while British soldiers continued firing away with the two Bren guns.

But it was too late.

The Lancastria had suffered a mortal wound and now began to list heavily to starboard.

* * *

When the bombs struck, with some difficulty owing to the press of people, Edith and Kurt had been making their way back along a series of internal gangways towards the top deck, Kurt chattering happily about how he was looking forward to seeing Uncle Matthew and Aunt Mary and to going riding on his pony. Not that Starlight was strictly his but he had ridden the pony the last time they had all been together at Downton in the summer of 1938. The ensuing explosions knocked both mother and son off their feet. Dazed, picking herself up, realising something terrible must have happened, Edith helped Kurt to his feet and then pulling him behind her ran like the wind for the stairwell. At the head of the stairs, when the thick cloud of inky black smoke parted, a terrible sight met their eyes. The deck, where they had left Friedrich and Max standing but a short while ago, was now a mess of blood, of oil and splintered woodwork.

As if from nowhere, a man, a British sailor, bloodied, streaked with soot and oil, suddenly loomed in front of them. Without warning, he grabbed hold of Kurt and thrust him bodily into the nearest lifeboat, already filled almost to capacity with women and children. "You too!" ordered the sailor abruptly.

For a moment, uncharacteristically unsure as to what she should do, Edith stood her ground.

"Mama!" wailed Kurt.

"My husband, my eldest boy. I left them here ... I must find ..."

"There's no time!" yelled the sailor. Grabbing hold of Edith hard by her shoulders, he pushed her forward none too gently to the lifeboat. "Christ all bloody mighty! For fuck's sake, woman! Look about you! Can't you see what's happening? Now do as I tell you, and get in the bleedin' lifeboat. The Lancastria ... she's going down!"

As if to confirm the veracity of what the sailor had just said the liner gave a great lurch to port and then began to roll over while at the same time through a megaphone there now came the booming voice of an officer:

"Clear away the boats! Your attention please! Clear away the boats!"

 **Author's Note:**

 _Gone With The Wind_ was published in 1936; the film did not go on general release until the spring of 1942.

The age for marriage without parental consent in England at this time was still 21.

Dummkopf and Schlaumeier - words two brothers might well use in their general banter. Pimmel, well in the context it's pretty obvious what it refers to!

Part of this chapter concerns the sinking of RMS Lancastria (or more correctly by this date HMT Lancastria) - a real event and a terrible tragedy - which happened very much as described. No-one will ever know how many died when the former Cunard liner was sunk by German bombs off St. Nazaire in June 1940. However, the death toll of men, women and children well exceeded the combined totals of those who lost their lives on the Titanic and the Lusitania.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

A Family At War

" **A" Deck, RMS Lancastria, off St. Nazaire, France, 17th June 1940.**

With no choice left to her but to comply, Edith stepped quickly over the gunwale and down into the lifeboat. Kurt, now sobbing uncontrollably, stretched out his hands towards his mother. Quickly seating herself next to him, Edith enfolded him in her arms, whispering words of reassurance, that everything would be all right, that Papa and Max were in another lifeboat, hugging the terrified little boy tightly to her as if somehow her love for him and the warmth of a mother's embrace could shut out the full horror of what was unfolding round about them.

So far, only a handful of loaded lifeboats had been lowered. But now, with thousands of gallons of sea water pouring in through the ruptured plates of her hull, the Lancastria was sinking fast by the bow; it was only a matter of time before it became impossible to launch any more of the remaining lifeboats and that moment was approaching.

As the huge ship began to turn over, to her horror Edith saw that all around the sinking liner, struggling desperately in the calm but filthy, oil soaked waters, were hundreds of people. Most of them were soldiers, some in full kit, others who had stripped off in order to be able to swim more easily, as well as civilians, men, women and children; while from out of the clear blue sky streaked German fighters spraying machine gun fire and dropping flares, trying to set light to the thousands of tons of oil flooding out from the ruptured fuel tanks.

"Clear away the boats!" boomed the voice through the megaphone again but despite the sailors manning the winches, something unexpected happened: the lifeboat refused to move.

* * *

 **Cottage Hospital, Downton, Yorkshire, England, 19th June 1940.**

Her eyes red from weeping, Sybil turned away from the bed. A life without him was impossible to contemplate. From somewhere, just outside the open window, a bird was trilling. Of course, with his incomparable knowledge of wild birds, Tom would have been able to tell her what it was: the species, the colour of its plumage, its mating habits, everything. And now ...

* * *

 **The Rainbow Pool, Clontarf Castle Estate, Ireland, June 1919.**

As the skylark soared on the wing ever higher into the azure blue of the summer sky, arm in arm, they ambled gently across the close cropped turf, past where a herd of black cattle grazed contentedly, towards the far side of the field where a stile provided access through to the open countryside beyond. Tom scrambled lightly over it, turned, and waited attentively for Sybil to do the same.

"Of course, I don't suppose it will seem as magical to you as it did to me when I was a boy," said Tom ruefully from the other side of the stile.

"Well, even if it doesn't, it obviously still means a very great deal to you and I would love to see it all the same," retorted Sybil. "It's part of your past".

"And the past is myself," said Tom softly.

"Now, Branson, are you going to help me over this stile, or not?" She grinned; held out her hand to him.

"Certainly, milady," said Tom with mock obsequiousness. He smiled, grasped her proffered hand, then swiftly and deftly assisted her over the stile.

The day was still hot and drowsy, and they had long left the fields of Ciaran's farm far behind. Hand in hand Tom and Sybil made their way along a narrow track which wound along a shallow valley. Here the strong scent of bracken was almost overwhelming; the white topped meadowsweet grew waist high, droning with clouds of flies. Every now and then ahead of them a rush of brown darted across their path, as yet another startled rabbit skittered out from the dense stands of bracken. Almost imperceptibly, the path began to climb, wending its way between a scatter of trees, of hawthorn and mountain ash. Tom half turned to smile shyly back at Sybil, as gently he led her ever onwards towards the pool of which he had spoken so lovingly.

"Not far now," he said and so it proved to be as but a short while later they emerged from beneath the shade of the sheltering trees onto a short stretch of open greensward. Ahead of them, almost lost to sight in a dense brake of hawthorn was a low, grey, ivy clad cliff, perhaps twenty or so feet high, over which the stream spilled in a foaming waterfall, swiftly tumbling through a jumble of moss grown rocks to splash into an almost circular pool fringed with fern; thereafter to trill over a rocky lip and wend its way onwards down the valley up which they had walked. Sunlight glinted off the foaming fall of water producing an iridescent kaleidoscopic wealth of many coloured hues which, thought Sybil, must be why they call it the Rainbow Pool.

"With what deep murmurs, through Time's silent stealth,  
Doth thy transparent, cool, and wat'ry wealth, Here flowing fall"

"Shelley?" asked Tom with a grin.

"No, Henry Vaughan, a Welsh poet".

Save for the sound of the waterfall, the silence was completely unbroken.

"Well, this is it" said Tom with a sideways glance at Sybil and with a gentle spread of his hand indicated the tranquil scene now before them. "What do you think?" he asked softly.

But before she could answer, there was a sudden flash, a blur of colour, she thought of brown and grey, and beating wings swept low across the surface of the pool.

"Kestrel!"

"How on earth do you know that?" asked Sybil, genuinely amazed once again by Tom's unexpected store of knowledge.

"For my tenth birthday, my mother bought me a book on birds. I spent hours looking at it, learning all their names, about their plumage, their nests, their feeding habits ..."

Sybil glanced about her. A more peaceful and tranquil spot was hard to imagine. This certainly was far from the maddin' crowd.

"So, what do you think?" he asked again.

"Why, my darling, I think it's absolutely enchanting". Sybil flung her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly. "Thank you! Thank you for bringing me here!"

"My pleasure!" Tom grinned at her, his eyes sparkling.

"And, if leprechauns do exist I'm sure they'd choose somewhere like this to live!" laughed Sybil.

Tom smiled broadly.

That Sybil clearly found the bathing pool and its immediate surroundings to be as beautiful and magical a place as he had all those years ago as a young boy pleased him enormously. He pulled out his watch from his waistcoat pocket and looked at the time.

"We don't have to start back yet; at least not for a while. You must be tired, love. Do you want to sit down?" he asked solicitously, pushing his watch back into his pocket. Without waiting for Sybil to reply, slipping off his jacket he spread it before her on the sun-warmed grass.

Sybil did as he suggested, sat down on his jacket, slipped off her shoes, and stretched out her legs.

"And that, that over there," said Tom squatting beside her and pointing towards a series of rough steps hewn in the rock, "that's the way down to the ledge. Yes, that's it. Where Ciaran taught me how to dive".

"Wasn't that rather dangerous? It looks very narrow".  
"No, the pool's quite deep. And as for the ledge, well it's much wider than it looks from here. Do you mind if I go and explore? See if I can still get down to it? Will you be all right here, if I do?" Tom stood up, smiled down at her, the sunlight catching a gleam of gold in his hair.  
"I'll be fine. Are you going in for a swim?" She laughed.

"Hardly. No bathing suit!" said Tom sounding somewhat wistful.

"From what Ciaran said that didn't stop you when you were here before!" giggled Sybil.

"Sybil, I was **thirteen** at the time!" pointed out Tom mortified, flushing bright red to the roots of his hair at her suggestion.

"I'd ask you to come with me, but the last time we were here, the track ... down to the steps ... well, it was frightfully overgrown!"

"Go on, off with you".

"Wait for me?" asked Tom with a merry twinkle in his eyes.

"Of course" laughed Sybil. "What else have I to do, except wait for you? Although, come to think of it, I might just try and do a sketch of this place while you're exploring. Mind you, I doubt I will do justice to it".

"I'm sure you will. Aislin was really taken with the sketch you did of Riordan back at the farm". Seeing that she was already searching for her sketchbook and pencils, Tom laughed out loud and Sybil pulled a face.

"I'll be back in half an hour or so for sure".

Sybil smiled up at him.

"All right".

Happy as a sand-boy, whistling merrily, Tom set off jauntily down the track and as she watched him go, Sybil reflected that thankfully some of his childhood memories were happy ones.

The sound of his footsteps dwindled, faded; was gone. Resting herself on the palms of her out-splayed hands Sybil sat back and gazed about her. When she had told Tom that this seemed an almost magical place, she had not been speaking entirely in jest. All about her she could hear the buzzing drone of countless insects. There were rabbits too, running across the short grass beyond her, scuttering in and out of the sweet smelling bracken. Scarlet and emerald damsel and dragon flies darted and hung motionless poised above the surface of the water. There was a sudden flash of bright blue as a kingfisher dived into the dark depths of the pool, only to emerge moments later, sparkling in the sunlight, bejewelled with minute droplets of crystal clear water, and with a wriggling silver fish twisting helplessly in its beak. The kingfisher flew off and disappeared amongst the grey green reeds fringing the pool. And, above the myriad sights and sounds to Sybil's ears there came the continuous, almost hypnotic, sound of running water.

By now it was late afternoon but the sun was still high. Sybil yawned; lay back on Tom's jacket, breathing in his scent, linking her hands behind her head. A moment later, she heard him coming back through the trees towards her and shortly thereafter Tom emerged from out of the thicket of holly and mountain ash and dropped down on the short turf beside her.

"Miss me?" he asked with a self-satisfied grin and leaned in for a kiss.

"What do you think?" asked Sybil. "Tom, your hair's all damp!"

"It's only spray from the waterfall for sure".

"Did you manage to get down to the ledge? I suppose I ... I must have dozed off".

"You know me", chuckled Tom. He nodded. "No sketch of the pool then?"

"Of the pool? No". Sybil shook her head and smiled broadly.

"Pity. Well, never mind. They'll be other opportunities to draw this place for sure", said Tom.

"I'm sure there will", echoed Sybil.

"You ready to set off back?"

Tom held out his hand toward her, helped her up to her feet, reached down, and retrieved his jacket, swinging it nonchalantly back over his left shoulder. Then, arm in arm, they set off along the path towards the distant farm.

"This has been a beautiful day, one that I will never forget," said Sybil with a dazzling smile. Gently, she rested her head on his shoulder as, clutching her sketchbook firmly under her arm, they walked back into the farmyard to find Ciaran and young Ruari already hitching up the waggonette for the return journey back to Clontarf and to be met by the younger children running over to them, to drag both Sybil and Tom inside the reed thatched farmhouse for tea.

Later that night, as Sybil snuggled down in bed, her sketchbook lay safely hidden beneath her pillow. And like the drawings by Patrick Hennessy that they had both seen in the National Gallery in Dublin, Sybil's sketch of Tom left nothing to her imagination.

She had caught him naked, seated on the rocky ledge from where but a short time earlier he must have dived into the pool below; absent-mindedly absorbed in drying his tousled hair with his flannel vest, his arm outstretched. Drops of water glistened on his pale skin. Tom looked radiant, carefree, glowing with both health and happiness. Later, much later, Sybil was to be thankful that she had drawn him as he looked now.

Believing her to have fallen asleep, unaware that to avoid the full glare of the afternoon sun she had moved back under the fringe of the sheltering trees, Tom was gazing directly in Sybil's direction, to where she had been sitting when he had left her. In no sense was the portrait posed. After all, how could it have been, when Tom had been so singularly unaware that Sybil was sketching him from her covert vantage point? And it was the total lack of self-consciousness on his part, which gave the sketch its rare vitality.

Sybil did not believe in deceit and would of course show Tom the sketch ... eventually; but not yet. After all, he had asked her if she had sketched the pool and to that she had replied truthfully enough; that she had not. And if she ever felt her drawing of Tom to be at all idealised why then all she had to do was compare it with the living proof lying beside her. And with that comforting thought, hugging both her pillow and sketch book closely to her, Sybil yawned, turned out her lamp, and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

 **Cottage Hospital, Downton, Yorkshire, England, 19th June 1940.**

There was a slight noise and Sybil turned round to see, standing in the doorway to Tom's room, tight lipped and pale, both Robert and Saiorse. Glancing at the bed, seeing her beloved father's prostrate form and her mother's tear-stained face, letting go of Robert, Saiorse move forward and took both her mother's hands in her own.

"Oh Ma! we're so very, very sorry!"

Sybil nodded her head.

"How is Uncle Tom?"

"As you can see, Robert. All we can do now is watch and wait. And while we do, I want to talk to you both".

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, 20th June 1940.**

"I tell you, I won't! I won't have it!" Mary raged.

Standing by his late father-in-law's desk in the Library, Matthew watched helplessly as, with her hands clasped tightly together, his wife paced up and down; to and fro, to and fro. Never had he seen her so angry. Although Robert Crawley earl of Grantham might well have been dead for nearly ten years, even now Matthew still thought of the massive mahogany desk by which he was now standing as belonging to his late father-in-law; because of which Matthew used it infrequently, preferring to make use of the other in the Small Library or else the one down in the Estate Office. He sighed. If Mary wasn't careful she would soon be wearing a path right through the weave of the Aubusson carpet and then there really would be hell to pay.

"How could Robert do this? To us, to this family, even to himself?"

"Darling, it's the war".

"What on earth's that got to do with it?" snapped Mary. "Robert's twenty years old. He should bloody well have learned how to exercise some damned restraint! If … If he has … urges … he can't control, then … there are women … women he could go to for … for that sort of thing". She paused. "Matthew, don't laugh. Don't you dare laugh at me! What I mean is … well there are, aren't there, women who he could have gone to?"

"You mean prostitutes".

"Don't be disgusting!"  
"Well, that's what they're called". Matthew shook his head; fell to wondering momentarily if this was the first time the word _prostitute_ had ever been uttered within the confines of this magnificent room and decided that probably it was.

"Mary, for God's sake, will you please sit down! What with all your pacing up and down, you're making me quite dizzy. Besides which you're in danger of wearing out the carpet".

Halfway between the two sash windows Mary paused and looked down at her feet; now heard her beloved late father's voice and suddenly, once again, she was a little girl and but four years old.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, 1895.**

"It's very old. It came all the way from Aubusson," said Papa, now pointing to the carpet.

"Very old? You mean like, Granny?" she asked in all seriousness. Amused in spite of himself, by the unfathomable workings of a child's mind, Robert Crawley smiled and did his very best not to laugh.

"Oh, much older than your granny," he conceded. He saw the brows of his elder daughter knit together, trying to comprehend this startling news as Mary wrestled with the astonishing concept of something older than his own mother; Mary's granny.

"Older than Carson?" she persisted.

"Oh, much older than Carson".

"The place … where you said it came from … is it near Ripon?"

"Oh, no. It's a long, long way from Ripon".

"Where is?"

"Aubusson; where many hundreds of years ago this carpet was made. It's a place in France".  
"Where's France, Papa?"

"Come, I'll show you".

Taking her by the hand, her father led her over to one of the tall bookcases which lined the walls of the huge room. Kneeling down he extracted a large leather bound volume from one of the shelves, and took her back to his desk where he perched her on his knee and opened the book which he had said was called an atlas. Then he turned the coloured pages until he found the one he was looking for.

"This is a map of France".

"It doesn't look very big," she said, looking at the pretty picture. Turning her little head, Mary looked down at the carpet and then back at the map. "The carpet's much bigger than …where you said this was". She pointed to the map.

"France," said Robert.

Seated on his knee, eyeing him suspiciously, Mary shook her head. Until now she had believed implicitly in all that Papa told her. He knew everything or so she believed. Clearly that was not true because how could a little place like … France make something as big as the carpet on the floor of her father's study? Why, the people living there must be smaller than those in Gulliver's Travels.

"I don't believe the carpet comes from there. It's far too small".

Mary glanced up and saw her father was smiling. She was not impressed.

"Papa, you're fibbing!" she said, mistaking the reason which lay behind his smile. "You're naughty. Nanny says it's wrong to tell fibs," she said flatly and did her best to close the atlas.

Robert sighed; clearly it was going to be a long morning.

Cora, who, a few moments ago, had come into the Library by the door at the far end of the room and did so unobserved was charmed both by the sight of little Mary sitting on her father's knee and by the ensuing conversation between their daughter and her father. Not wishing to intrude, still unobserved, Cora withdrew herself discretely from the Library but the image of what she had just seen, of what she overheard, was one which she treasured for the rest of her life.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, 20th June 1940.**

Mary walked slowly over to the sofa and sat down heavily. A minute later and Matthew had joined her.

"I think it may also have something to do with what Danny said the night before last," he said gently.

"What Daniel said? I don't see how".

"That they're in love …"

"Oh, Matthew! For God's sake, spare me that sentimental nonsense! In case you've forgotten, the last time I looked this was England; not America. This is Downton Abbey, not Hollywood! Remember?"

"How on earth could I ever forget that?" asked Matthew softly; although more to himself than to his wife who, if she had heard him, chose to ignore what he had just said because she gave no indication of the fact that she had. "Yes, Mary I'm very well aware that this is England and this …" Matthew spread his hands expansively "… is Downton Abbey".

"And as for that sly little minx … Why she's no better than she ought to be!"  
"What on earth do you mean by that?"

"Saiorse! She's to blame for all of this!"  
"That's hardly fair. I think Robert played his part".

"There's no need to be quite so graphic, Matthew. It's a case of like mother, like daughter!"

"Like mother, like daughter? What the hell do you mean by that?"

"Well, that's something else you seem to have forgotten this morning!"

"I know I shall regret asking you this but what precisely have I forgotten now?"  
"That her mother ran off with the chauffeur!"

"Oh, Mary, please! Not that old chestnut again. How on earth can you say that, after all these years, with Tom lying dangerously ill down there in the Cottage Hospital, and with Sybil and Saiorse at his bedside?"

"Matthew, I'm just as upset about Tom as you are but Saiorse didn't consider him at all, when she did what she did. Nor for that matter did Robert!"

"I hardly think you can blame Saiorse or Robert for Tom's heart attack. From what Sybil said, when I saw her earlier this morning, when she came back to get him a change of pyjamas, it could have happened at any time. You know from way back that Tom's always had a weak heart. He's been overdoing things recently; working too hard and none of us are getting any younger. You said so yourself, remember? And Sybil said pretty much the same on the telephone from the hospital last night. What's done is done. I just hope and pray that he makes as full a recovery as possible".

"You're a fine one to talk about overdoing things!"  
"Yes, well ..."

"No, yes well about it. If you're not careful you'll end up like Tom. Is it likely he'll pull through?"

"From what Sybil said, yes. Since your father's day there have been advances in treating this kind of thing. Given plenty of rest and a lot of loving kindness. And despite what you just said, about Saiorse and Robert, there's a very great deal of that for Tom in this family, he should get back to being his old self. Obviously he'll have to take things more easily but that's no bad thing. However, it will take time. I've told Sybil that even if Danny has to go back to Dublin, then the rest of them mustn't even think of going back to Ireland, not until Tom's made as full a recovery as possible".

"But what about Bobby and Dermot's schooling?"

"For the time being they can go down to the school in the village. I've already had a word with Jarvis and he says that even with the evacuees, he can accommodate them".

"Where are they now?"

"Danny's taken Bobby out in the Skylark. They're dropping by the hospital later. Simon, I'm not sure, but as for Rebecca, Emily and Dermot, when last seen, at least according to your mother, they were all down there in the kitchen garden, digging for victory!"  
"So, what are we to do about Robert and Saiorse?"

"If you want my honest opinion, I think then we shall just have to make the best of things".

"That's you all over isn't it?"  
"What is?"  
"Give in, submit. Why won't you ever fight?"  
"Because it's not in my nature".

"You fought in the war".

"So I did".

"Well then …"  
"Will you let me finish what I'm trying to say? To paraphrase what you once said, _it's not who I am_. I'm a lover not a fighter. Granted I'll fight tooth and nail to defend those I love. Darling, I fully accept that Robert and Saiorse haven't gone about things the right way, if there is a right way. But Saiorse's expecting our son's child. Robert says he loves her. And she says he loves him. They want to get married. Here at Downton. I'm not giving in or submitting to anything. I'm simply accepting the realities of the situation".  
"You can't say that you approve, surely?"  
"Whether I approve or not is immaterial. She's Robert's choice and quite frankly there's an end of it. She's expecting his child. What's more, she's our niece. We've known Saiorse almost from the day she was born and while I know she can be a right little spitfire at times, I for one am very fond of her. And I think, deep down, so too are you. They'll do very well together. Maybe it's not the best start to their married life but look about you Mary at what's happening. Carpe diem".

"What do you mean?"

Matthew reached forward and took her hands in his.

"Did you make your peace with Robert before he flew back to Croydon, as I suggested?"  
"He's our son".  
"You haven't answered my question".

"Yes, of course I did. That doesn't mean I approve of what he's done. Far from it!"

"Well, I'm very glad to hear it. Given what's about to happen over the next few days and weeks I didn't want the two of you parting on bad terms".

"Is it likely to be very bad?" Mary's voice faltered.  
"Honestly?"  
"Yes, honestly".  
"Mary, I haven't a clue but according to what Robert told me, and for goodness sake don't go telling anyone what I'm about to say to you now, the Germans outnumber us by five to one both in pilots and in aircraft.

"Oh, my god!" Mary's hand flew to her mouth.

"So, that rather puts our little domestic problem here into perspective, doesn't it?"

"Maybe but it still doesn't alter the fact that what the two of them have done is unforgivable".

"No, not unforgivable".

"Selfish then".

"Perhaps but it's not just that".

"What do you mean?"  
"Remember what I said. Carpe diem. Robert lost two of his friends over Dunkirk. When I was at school, back before the Flood as Robert and Simon would have it, I remember there were many my age who talked about what they were going to do with their lives, the girls they were going to meet. Most of them didn't make it through the last show. So I can understand Robert and Saiorse wanting to get on with their lives".

"I do begin to see what you mean".

"At least think it over. Will you do that for me?"

"Well, all right. I still have my reservations and I'm not making any promises".  
"That's my girl!"

Matthew kissed her warmly on the cheek. Then, catching sight of the clock on the mantelpiece, he stood up.

"Golly, is that the time? I promised old Davis that I'd meet him down at the Estate Office. I'll have to run. He snapped his fingers at his two golden Labradors lying on the carpet by the desk. Named, given Matthew's love of all things Classical, Lucius and Trajan, for two Roman emperors, although behind his back privately Tom referred to them as Lenin and Trotsky, with the two dogs following in his wake, Matthew fairly ran for the door. "I'll grab a sandwich for lunch at the Arms. I'll be back in time for supper!"

Grab a sandwich for lunch? Supper? Mary grimaced. How positively middle class! Next he would be eating his meals off a tray.

* * *

 **Estate Office, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, 20th June 1940.**

If any one of Matthew and Mary's children could have been said to have embraced the advances of modern science, with his love of radio, it was Simon. But the visit which he paid to the Downton Abbey Estate Office this afternoon, to the inner sanctum from which his father ran the whole operation, was completely unexpected. Indeed, it was so unusual that for a moment Matthew was taken completely aback by the appearance of his younger son in the doorway.

"Simon! Come in, my boy. Don't often see you down here!" In fact, as he thought about it, Matthew could never recall seeing Simon down here at the Estate Office, not since he was a little boy.

"No father".

"Well, don't just stand there, come in and close the door!"

"Yes, father".

Simon did as he was bidden and sat down on the other side of the large desk, the top of which was all but hidden from view beneath a clutter of papers, ledgers and maps. For a former military man, Simon thought his father to be incredibly untidy. Not that it really mattered; for Matthew Crawley's knowledge of matters concerning the estate was well nigh infallible. Simon knew perfectly well that were he to ask his father what was the amount of monthly rent payable by the Earshaws up at Wild Moor Farm and the date on which it next fell due, what had been grown two years ago in the East Field at Lower Hutton or when the culvert beneath Chapel Lane had last been repaired, his father would have been able to tell him precisely what it was he wanted to know and without recourse to any of his records.

"So then, what brings you down here?"

"May I ask you something, father?"  
"Of course; although if by answering, I might incriminate myself, then as a solicitor, even a non practising one, I reserve the right to remain silent!"

Matthew laughed and lounged back in his old swivel chair; a relic of his office in Manchester from before the war. Mentally he corrected himself; from before the **last** war. But then, when he saw the expression on his son's face, he realised immediately that his attempt at levity had misfired completely. Matthew stood up, moved round the desk and leant back against it next to his son.

"What on earth is it old chap?"

"Father, I know you said we have to be very careful about talking about things, because of the war and all".

"Yes. Yes, I did. So…"

"Oh, nothing". Simon looked everywhere and anywhere rather than meet his father's gaze.

"It's a heavy thing, your nothing".

"I suppose so".

"You suppose so? What sort of **thing** did you have in mind?"

"Well, that sort of thing". Simon nodded in the direction of the poster on the wall behind the desk. Produced by the government it depicted a blonde woman reclining on a sofa surrounded by three men in the uniforms of the armed services and bearing the caption:

"Keep mum she's not so dumb! CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES"

"Any **thing** in particular?"

Simon looked down at the floor.

"Well …"  
"Well what?"  
"Well for one thing … That ship you mentioned; the one you said you'd heard had sailed from Liverpool. The one you said Uncle Friedrich, Aunt Edith, Max and Kurt were sailing home on, from France?"

Suddenly it was as if an icy finger touched the base of Matthew's spine and it was now that he felt the first flicker of foreboding.

"Yes?"  
"What … what was she called?"

"RMS Lancastria. Your grandfather and grandmother sailed on her to New York, not long after you were born".

"The **Lancastria**?"  
"Yes, Simon. That's what I said. Why do you want to know?"

"Because …"  
"Because what?"

There was something which Simon was clearly uncomfortable about telling him and that in itself was enough to make Matthew uneasy. Then, at last, the boy found his voice and what it was that was troubling him came out in a torrent of words.

"Because Lord Haw Haw said on the radio last night that the Germans had sunk her. Off St. Naz… something or other. That's why".

"St. Nazaire?"

"Yes, that was it. Where is it?"

"It's a port, on the west coast of France".

"Anyway that's what I heard; that the Germans have sunk her".

"Poppycock. Absolute rubbish!" His father snorted derisively. "Why, if the Germans **had** sunk the Lancastria we'd have heard all about it. In any case Haw Haw's said that kind of thing before and there was no truth in it; none whatsoever. Have you any idea just how large that ship is? Over 16,000 tons. That's one hell of a size. Anyway, what have I told you before, about listening to that traitor? He's just a mouthpiece for the Nazis. What he says in his broadcasts is all a pack of lies, designed to try and lower morale over here. I've absolutely no doubt, none whatsoever, that your Uncle Friedrich, Aunt Edith, Max and little Kurt are all alive and well. And if, **if** mark you, they've sailed on the Lancastria, then they'll be back here in England safe and sound and on their way here in the next few days. You'll see".

"Yes father," replied Simon tonelessly.

"You do believe me, don't you?"

"Of course, father".

"Well then … and mind you say nothing about this to your mother. She's got enough on her plate at the moment what with your brother and his shenanigans!" Rather pleased with himself, Matthew smiled. He had learned that word from Tom many years ago but until now had never had the opportunity to use it.

* * *

Nonetheless, for all his confident assertion to Simon that what he had heard on the radio up in his bedroom was nothing more than German propaganda, after the boy had gone, there yet remained in Matthew's mind an inkling of doubt. Try as he might, even when applying himself to estate business, in particular studying the schedule of works to be undertaken at Church Farm - although quite how he was supposed to put in hand any kind of repairs when materials were so scarce he could not begin to imagine - the gnawing doubt that something was very wrong, refused to go away. At last, Matthew could stand it no longer and, reaching for the telephone on his desk, he picked up the receiver and when Gwen Pollard down at the exchange in the village answered, Matthew gave her a London number and asked to be put through immediately.

Some time later, having replaced the receiver in its cradle, stunned beyond measure by what he had learned, Matthew sat back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. God in Heaven! Although given what, in the strictest confidence, he had just been told Matthew now seriously doubted that there was a god at all. As if things weren't bad enough already, what with Tom, the business of Robert and Saiorse and now, on top of all, this.

Amongst all the lies he had told, this time Lord Haw Haw was right.

Just three days ago, on Monday afternoon, shortly after four o'clock, off St. Nazaire, the Lancastria had been sunk by a German bomber. How on earth was he going to tell Mary and Sybil that, along with thousands of others, while there was still a very slim chance that they were alive, in all probability Friedrich, Edith and their two boys were now dead?

As he fell to trying to consider once again the repairs due at Church Farm, the telephone began to ring with a shrill insistency. Matthew reached forward and picked up the receiver.

"Crawley".

"Matthew ..." The line crackled.  
"Who is this please?"

"Its Friedrich".

 **Author's Note:**

While Edith and Kurt are fictional characters, one the creation of Julian Fellowes, the other my own, the description of what happened on board the Lancastria as she was going down is taken from the accounts of some of those fortunate enough to have survived this appalling tragedy.

Lord Haw Haw was the nickname of William Brooke Joyce (1906-46) who broadcast radio propaganda for Nazi Germany during the Second World War. At the end of the war he was captured by the British, tried, convicted of treason and hanged in 1946.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

"Everyman For Himself!

 **A Deck, RMS Lancastria, off St. Nazaire, France, 4pm, 17th June 1940.**

Now, in one, final, desperate attempt to free the seized lifeboat before the Lancastria capsized completely and then sank to the bottom of the sea, without a thought for their own safety and heedless for their own lives, a group of soldiers began frantically driving the butts of their rifles hard against the jammed davits, covered in paint, masking the fact from one and all that they were rusted solid. For a moment their frenzied efforts seemed to be in vain as nothing appeared to happen; the repeated blows made no difference whatsoever. Then, suddenly, there was a terrific jolt and without a moment's warning, and at an alarming rate too, amid screams from its terrified occupants, the lifeboat began an all but uncontrolled, rapid descent towards the oil soaked waters of the sea, some sixty feet below.

A moment later, and the stricken lifeboat hit the surface of the sea. There followed the most enormous splash, sending up a huge column of spray, and which then falling back,as a torrent of dirty, oil stained, salty water, drenched to the very skin those who had the misfortune to be directly beneath it. The sudden impact promptly catapulted many of its thirty occupants, most of them without life jackets, among them both Edith and Kurt, over the side, to join those already struggling for their very lives in the filthy, oily waters surrounding the sinking liner.

Behind them, the Lancastria continued to turn over, with thousands still trapped inside her or else on her decks. Of the latter, some began throwing into the sea anything that might float. Others were trying to climb down ladders, swinging off ropes, and then jumping into the water below. Amongst those who did so were some who, on the face of it, had been far luckier than their fellows and had been given or else acquired a life jacket and which now proved to be their nemesis. For, the life jackets which should have helped save their lives, as they hit the sea, rode up with the impact, breaking their necks, killing them instantly; while hundreds of others left on board began clambering up and out onto the exposed hull of the huge ship as she began to turn turtle.

* * *

 **Somewhere in south west England, 22nd June 1940.**

Doing his very best to remain unobtrusive, minding his own business, Danny Branson sat quietly huddled in the corner of the grubby Third Class compartment. Given how crowded the train had been already, when he boarded it in Bristol, not only with ordinary passengers like himself, but also with army and navy lads, along with their forage caps, greatcoats, kit bags, webbing packs, rifles and everything else but the kitchen sink, he had been lucky to find a seat at all. Mind you, given the lack of progress they were making, crawling along at the proverbial snail's pace, it would, reflected Danny, have been far quicker to get out and walk. And, of course, had it not been for his Uncle Matthew swearing him to the utmost secrecy, saying there was absolutely no-one else to whom he could turn, who he could trust to do what needed to be done, Danny knew he would not have been here at all.

The malodorous compartment reeked of tobacco smoke and damp khaki while above Danny's head the overloaded mesh of the luggage rack sagged ominously. A short while later and there was an ear splitting squeal of brakes as the train pulled to a halt. Danny groaned. Jaysus! Not again! Apart from the overcrowding, travelling by train, here in England, in wartime, was fraught with all manner of difficulties: cancellations, diversions and late running to name but a few of them.

Danny tried to make out the dial of his watch and which, as far as he could see, appeared to show that it was now a quarter to nine. If so, he should have been in Plymouth over an hour since. He rubbed at the grimy glass with his fingers. Outside it was as black as pitch. There was not a feckin' thing to be seen, although with the blackout being rigidly enforced, that in itself was hardly surprising. As far as Danny could tell, the train appeared to be along side a platform of some sort; he could make out the base of the posts which had previously supported the station name board although, along with the signposts on the roads, that had been removed here, as elsewhere; in order that should German parachutists land in the locality it would make it far more difficult for them to establish exactly where they were with any degree of certainty. At least, that was the theory. Not yet having been put to the test, no-one could say with any degree of certainty whether it worked in practice.

Then Danny made a fatal mistake.

* * *

 **Grand Charpentier Roads, off St. Nazaire, France 17th June 1940.**

As Edith hit the sea, the weight of Friedrich's coat immediately pulled her under.

Kicking hard, and in the process losing one of her shoes, she broke through the surface of the dirty water, coughing and spluttering, to see Kurt struggling close by. Thank God she had taught both him and Max how to swim in the lake at Rosenberg; for as she looked about, it became all too obvious that many of those floundering in the sea did not even know how to swim. Catching sight of his mother, the little boy stopped swimming and raised his right arm, waving frantically.

"Mama!" he cried, just before a wave of filthy water hit him and he disappeared from her sight below the surface of the sea.

"No! Kurt! No!" screamed Edith.

Seconds later, reaching the spot where she had last seen him, Edith dived immediately, hands flailing, desperately seeking. Catching sight of Kurt and then thankfully making contact, Edith pulled with all her might and a moment later, gasping, choking, covered in a cloying mass of oil, mother and son breasted the surface of water.

"Mama!" Kurt retched and was then promptly sick all over her. Despite the ever encroaching oil, the water was surprisingly warm and the sea calm. Treading water, heedless of the fact that she was covered both in oil and her son's vomit, Edith hugged the little boy tightly to her.

"There, there, my darling. That's it! Hold onto me!" And, it was while continuing to tread water, still with her arms around her son, that Edith spied their one and only hope of salvation: an empty life raft floating some distance off. She nodded her head towards it.

"Kurt, do you think … you can make it?"

Mutely, Kurt slowly nodded his assent.

"Well then … Let's try for it!"

Keeping one arm firmly around Kurt, telling him to swim, Edith did likewise and slowly mother and son began to pull towards the raft. While the distance to it from where they were now was not that far, it seemed to take forever, as more and more oil, glutinous, thick, black, and with the consistency of treacle, was pouring into the sea from the fuel tanks of the stricken liner, thus making their progress towards the life raft incredibly laboured and slow.

Eventually, after what seemed an age, now along with a golden Labrador dog in tow, evidently another survivor of the disaster, the two of them at last reached the life raft. Grabbing hold of it, Edith helped Kurt over the side and into the raft; the dog being left to shift for itself, which it now did splendidly, scrambling aboard, shaking its soaking coat as if it had just been out for nothing more than a short romp in a river instead of escaping from the confines of a watery grave aboard a sinking ocean liner. A moment later, Edith hauled herself up into the life raft and immediately pulled Kurt to her. For the present, what the frightened, terrified, little boy wanted most of all was to be held tightly in his mother's arms. He seemed unable to speak, completely stunned by the horror of what had happened; continued to make no sound, none whatsoever, not even when the Labrador placed one of its front paws on Kurt's left shoulder and then nuzzled his face.

From head to toe, both Edith and Kurt were filthy dirty.

Each soaking wet, caked with and reeking of oil.

But for all that, unlike hundreds, thousands of others, including dearest Friedrich and darling Max, they were alive.

A series of heart rending sobs shook Edith's body and with tears now streaming uncontrollably down her face, aware of the enormity of all that she had just lost, Edith turned her head in the direction from whence they had both swum. Then on seeing what she now saw, wished instantly that she hadn't done so. For unlike the Titanic, which had taken nearly four hours before finally plunging to the bottom beneath the icy waters of the North Atlantic, it was only all too obvious that here on this fine summer's day, off St. Nazaire, on the west coast of France, the end for the RMS Lancastria was fast approaching.

Telling Kurt not to look, some little distance off but for all that still close at hand, Edith saw unfolding before her a sight of unimaginable horror as now, amongst many others, she became an unwilling witness to the final moments of the Lancastria just before the magnificent liner slipped forever beneath the calm waters of the enfolding sea. Trying to gauge how long it was they both had been in the water, out of habit Edith glanced at her wristwatch, a present from Friedrich for her birthday last year, only to see that it had stopped at a little after 4pm, the time when both Kurt and she had been thrown into the sea.

Midst the constant staccato chatter of machine gun fire and the continued explosion of incendiary bombs dropped from the diving, swooping German fighters, the cries, the screams and the shouts for help, with the liner settling ever deeper in the water with every passing minute, there now came the rending, screeching of metal as bulkheads gave way beneath the insupportable weight of thousands upon thousands of gallons of seawater pouring swiftly into the broken hull of the stricken liner. Covered in a thick mass of oil, the sea was strewn with broken spars, lifebelts, deckchairs and all manner of other wreckage and amidst all of this there were hundreds, probably thousands, of people, trying desperately to keep their heads above water; to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the sinking ship to avoid being sucked under when finally she sank.

From what Edith could make out, along with a few life rafts, only a handful of the liner's thirty odd lifeboats appeared to have been launched and several of those were now lying capsized with groups of people clinging desperately to their upturned hulls. Among all the flotsam and jetsam, the detritus of a once great ship, there were many bodies floating in the water too, while the keel of the huge liner appeared to be covered in a mass of khaki. For one brief moment Edith could not begin to comprehend what it was until she realised to her utter disbelief and horror that the khaki was in fact a mass of soldiers who, as the final moments of the Lancastria's earthly existence approached, now began to sing, lending a surreal quality to the whole awful ghastliness of the scene as the strident strains of "Roll out the barrel", "There always be an England" and finally the haunting words of "Abide With Me" drifted out across the water.

And then, a moment later, it was if she had never even existed.

The sea closed over the Lancastria and she was gone.

* * *

 **Somewhere in south west England, 22nd June 1940.**

Just like his own father and his Uncle Matthew, young Danny Branson was also a lover and not a fighter, as Carmen Garcia, a passionate raven haired beauty who, like Danny's mother was a nurse, would well attest. Even so, just like his father and his uncle, Danny was not a pacifist and was willing to fight for what he believed in. So it was that, in the immediate aftermath of the bombing of Guernica, in the Basque Country of northern Spain, towards the end of May 1937, during the Spanish Civil War, that, to the dismay of both his parents, at the tender age of seventeen, in the company of several of his friends, Danny had left Ireland; to join the Irish Volunteers in order to go and fight in Spain alongside the republicans opposing General Franco's fascist nationalists.

And while Tom was inordinately proud of his eldest son, to have had the courage and strength of his convictions, to go and fight for what he believed in, he also said to Danny when they were standing on the quayside at Dun Laoghaire saying their goodbyes that, at seventeen, Tom was not at all certain for sure if he himself would have been brave enough to have gone and done the same.

Understandably, as Danny's mother, Sybil had been utterly distraught, had begged, cajoled and pleaded with him not to go. Then, when it became clear that her pleas were falling on deaf ears, after Danny and his pals had taken ship in Dublin, bound first for France, Sybil began sending out food parcels, rolled bandages, knitting him socks and mittens, worrying if he had clean underwear, writing lengthy letters to him out in Spain, most of which Danny never even received,

And, along with a handful of others in the Volunteers, it was while all five young men were doing their very best to dodge the fascist forces of General Francisco Franco before, and in the nick of time too, crossing over the Pyrenees back into France, that Danny Branson came to meet Carmen Garcia, a republican nurse, five years his senior.

Like Danny, Carmen herself was on the run from the Nationalists and it was she who had taken the handsome young Irishman to her bed for that first and only time, one bitterly cold night in the Basque mountains in January 1938. Taking too the boy's virginity, as Danny himself would have put it, to be sure.

Ever thereafter Carmen remembered with the greatest affection both the night and the softly spoken, earnest, young Irishman who proved to be, for all his inexperience, an attentive and passionate lover, and naming the child born of that encounter, Daniel, in honour and memory of the little boy's undoubted father.

Nonetheless, now, three years later, on a June night, in a railway compartment on the Great Western Railway, somewhere in the south west of England, the soon as Danny Branson opened his mouth, to ask if anyone in the squalid compartment knew where they all were now, his very accent betrayed his origins as someone coming from south of the border with the north and from the Republic of Ireland.

Apart from the fact that they both came from Crosby Street, which lay just off the Protestant Shankill Road in Belfast, and were lifelong friends, Private 13472 Eddie Doyle and Private 13396 Jimmy Begley were now serving together in the same regiment, the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers. A month earlier, along with many others, both had been evacuated from the beach head at Dunkirk.

"Well, look who we've got here! A fucking bloody Shinner!"

"And a bloody Nazi sympathiser no doubt".

"No doubt about it, mate!"

"I'm neither of those for sure".

"For sure, is it? You and your fucking' kind murdered my Da down there in Cork!"

"And planted that bleedin' bomb in Coventry that killed them five people!"

"Please, I don't want any trouble. All I asked was if you know where we are?"

"Yeah! This is where you are and for sure!"

A moment later and the soldier's clenched fist hit Danny Branson hard in the face.

* * *

 **Grand Charpentier Roads, off St. Nazaire, France 17th June 1940.**

The life raft had been drifting on the open sea for several hours and, with no sign of rescue in sight, with little Kurt lost in a world of silence, Edith was almost in despair. Then, when she least expected it, when she was almost at the limit of her endurance, it happened.

"Ahoy there!" The voice, that of a man, seemed to come from the vastness of the ocean and for a split second Edith wondered if she was becoming delirious.

"Ahoy! You there! On that fucking raft!"

Not only was the voice real enough but strange to relate she thought she recognised it too. Then when, clutching onto a broken spar, the man swam alongside, she knew.

"Well, don't just bloody sit there woman, help me aboard!"

A few moments later and the sailor who had so unceremoniously thrust Kurt into the lifeboat was sitting on the raft.

"Christ! I thought I was a gonna back there! Been in that bleedin' water for hours! 'ere, don't I know..." The man's eyes flicked from Edith, to Kurt, and back again.

"You put my son into the lifeboat, just before ..."

""Yeah, that's right. I remember now. Just after Jerry dropped his ... You were lookin' for your 'usband and your other boy?"  
Edith nodded.

"I suppose you didn't ..."

"No, I didn't". Edith turned her head away.

"I'm sorry".

Barefoot, wearing nothing more than a torn singlet and a pair of trousers, the man was now searching for something in his pockets. Finding whatever it was he had been looking for, he pulled it out. _It_ turned out to be a half eaten bar of chocolate. The man broke off a couple of squares and handed them to Edith.

"'ere. For the boy".

"Thank you".

"My pleasure".

The sailor smiled at Kurt who sat silent, seemingly unseeing, unhearing of both everything and everyone save for his mother who, at this precise moment in time was trying to wipe away some of the oil from off his face with a scrap of silk torn from her dress.

"'andsome little beggar!. Doesn't say much though, does 'e?"

Edith shook her head.

"Not at the moment. Not since ..." She nodded towards where the sea had closed over the Lancastria. The singing had ceased long since but people could still be seen struggling in the oil-soaked waters, clinging to pieces of wreckage, or else seated in the pitifully small number of lifeboats that had been launched before the ship went down.

"Shock of it, I suppose".

"Yes, I suppose so".

"What's 'is name?"  
"Kurt".

"Kurt? That's a German-sounding name". The sailor looked suspiciously at the two of them. At that moment Edith was on the point of explaining that Kurt's father had been Austrian; that they spoke German in Austria, but then decided that given the Anschluss and the fact that Herr Hitler was Austrian, that might not be such a good idea after all.

"His father's ..." She paused. "His father **was** Swiss. They speak both French and German in Switzerland".

"Make cuckoo clocks".

"What?"  
"The Swiss. They make cuckoo clocks".

Edith now felt a sudden urge to laugh. After all, it was rather ridiculous. Here they were, Kurt and she, both of them filthy dirty, soaking wet, although with the warmth from the afternoon sun their clothes were now at last beginning to dry a little, drifting on the open sea in a life raft, with no apparent likelihood of either of them ever being rescued. She had just lost both her husband and her elder son, and here she was, having a conversation with a complete stranger about bloody cuckoo clocks.

"The dog?"  
"I don't know. A bit like you, really".

"Like me? How so?"  
"It just swam alongside. I think it belongs ... belonged to those two Belgian children, my son and I were talking to, just before the Lancastria was hit. I don't think they ..." Edith fell silent.

The man nodded.

"I suppose it doesn't do any good to ..." she began.  
"No, it don't". The man stared out over the sea away from where the Lancastria had foundered.

"I'll try not to think to think about it then".

Again the man nodded.

"Best not. What's your name, love?" he asked.

"Edith". To say anything else, that she was the sister-in-law of the earl of Grantham, let alone married to a member of one of the oldest families in Austria, even if she had not already decided against saying anything about the latter, seemed faintly ridiculous.  
"English?"  
"Yes. From Yorkshire. And you?"

"Course. Bethnal Green".

"London?"

"Yeah. In the East End.

"What I also meant was ... What's your name?"

"Benson. Able Seaman. Merchant Navy.

"Benson?"  
The man nodded.

"That's right. But my friends call me ... Tom".

* * *

 **Somewhere in south west England, 22nd June 1940.**

Beaten and bloodied and thrown off the train into the darkness, the last thing Danny Branson recalled before he lapsed into unconsciousness was the gravel surface of the platform coming up to meet his face.

* * *

 **Millbay Docks, Plymouth** **, Devon, England, 18th June, 1940.**

Shortly before 4pm, the SS Oronsay steamed into Plymouth Sound and berthed in Millbay Docks. On board her, in addition to her normal complement of crew were some 1,500 or so soldiers and civilians, able-bodied, injured and wounded, rescued from the sea off St. Nazaire, in the aftermath of the sinking of the Lancastria.

Ashore in Plymouth, local residents and shop owners quickly rallied around and organised the handing out of free fish and chips, cigarettes and postcards. Those survivors needing medical attention were taken away to local hospitals while the others, many of whom had lost all their clothes, some presently wrapped in blankets, even in newspaper, were sent to billets at Stonehouse Barracks, the Naval Barracks, RAF Mount Batten, the Ballard Institute and local church halls, to wash and be re-kitted-out.

And, from off the overcrowded decks of the bomb damaged, leaking SS Oronsay, among those civilians now disembarking at Plymouth, in borrowed clothes, were a father and his seventeen year old son.

"Das ist sehr gut!" exclaimed Max who had never eaten fish and chips before and who, in his excitement, now made the fatal mistake of speaking in the language of his homeland.

"Ja, ich stimme zu!" agreed Friedrich, also lapsing into German.

However innocent, however innocuous, this brief conversation between father and son had not gone unheard and a short while later, despite Friedrich's protestations, both he and Max found themselves under arrest, confined to a cell, and enjoying the dubious hospitality of the Plymouth City Police.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, 23rd June 1940.**

"How is Tom?" asked Matthew. "I intend going down to see him later this afternoon, if that's all right".

"He's sleeping peacefully for the moment. Yes, of course. Saiorse's by his bedside. I told her to try and get some rest but she won't have it". Sybil had just come back up to the house that morning from being down at the Cottage Hospital. Now, here in the Drawing Room, she sat herself down on the sofa next to Mary. "Was there something else ?"

"It's Danny," said Matthew. "It seems he's disappeared. And, what's more, it's all my fault".

"Whatever do you mean, disappeared?" asked Sybil. Her hand flew to her mouth in consternation.

"And how on earth is it possibly your fault?" asked Mary, her brows knitting in confusion. "Why, he's a man grown".

"There's something I haven't told you; either of you and perhaps I should have".

"Oh, no! Not more bad news!" exclaimed Sybil.

"It's just as well then that Edith, Friedrich and the boys are taking their time sailing home from France. Perhaps things will have improved significantly by the time they all arrive here. Any news on that front?" asked Mary.

"That's just it," said Matthew. "I don't know how to tell you both this but ..."

 **Author's Note:**

Less than ten of the Lancastria's thirty two lifeboats got away in time.

It is perfectly true that, as the Lancastria was finally going down, in an act of supreme courage and defiance to what had happened and aware that most of them would not survive the sinking many of those men trapped on the upturned hull of the liner began singing the two songs and also, it is claimed, the hymn mentioned.

The Irish Volunteers are not to be confused with the Irish Brigade which fought on the opposite (Nationalist) side during the Spanish Civil War.

In January 1939, the IRA, now an illegal organisation in the Republic of Ireland, declared war on Great Britain. From early 1939 to mid 1940 the organisation initiated its S (Sabotage) Plan, carrying out more than 30 bombings across England, hitting a variety of targets including post boxes, electricity supplies and the London Underground. The most serious incident occurred in Coventry where seven people were killed. There were links between the IRA and the Abwehr, German military intelligence, at this time.

The two Belgian children, brother and sister, and their dogs, were all on board the Lancastria. Neither of the children survived the sinking although one of their dogs was later seen swimming in the sea. Whether it made it, seems not to be recorded. However, for the purposes of the story, I have had it do so.

The Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers was one of the three British regiments stationed in Northern Ireland at this time.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Survivors

 **The Spanish side of the Pyrenees, January 1938.**

"Come with us! Why don't you?"

"You know I can't. This is my country. Besides, what would your mother and father say?"

"They'd welcome you with open arms. I know they would. They're pretty amazing parents for sure!"

"Danny! For God's sake! Come on, damn, you! Juan says we have to go now!"

Down below them in the pass, they could see the headlights of a convoy of army lorries. Hot on their trail, the Nationalist soldiers were closing in fast.

"You must go!" She saw the confusion on his young face. Unwilling to leave her; knowing too, that he could not possibly stay.

A moment later and his lips closed hard on her own.

"I'll never forget you! Never!"

Carmen remained standing where she was beneath the dripping pines. At the very first bend in the track, she saw Danny stop. He turned, raised his hand in farewell, and then disappeared into the mist.

* * *

 **Grand Charpentier Roads, off St. Nazaire, France, 17th June 1940.**

With no sign of rescue in sight, the raft had now been drifting on the open sea for several hours.

"There! I think that should do it".

Edith smiled.

"Yes. I think that will serve very nicely".

Having tied a bowline knot in one end of a length of rope found in the bottom of the life raft, Tom Benson had fashioned a makeshift lead for the dog which he now placed over the animal's head, handing the free end of the rope to Kurt.

"Kurt, darling, what do you say?"

The little boy shook his head.

"Kurt!"

Edith rarely raised her voice to either of her sons - Friedrich had said she spoiled them - but, if the truth be told, the little boy's continuing silence was beginning to alarm her. Kurt still said nothing. Instead, he buried his face against the side of the golden Labrador, his arms clasped tightly around the dog's neck.

"It's all right. Give 'im time. 'e'll come round!"

"I do hope so".

Seeing the makeshift lead, Edith found herself thinking back to the summer of 1932 when young Danny had fashioned an equally improvised, "Heath Robinson" lead for Max's dear little dachshund: Fritz. Eight years later, aged twenty, Danny was a man grown.

As for Fritz, darling Frittie, much loved, especially by Max, he had passed away in the winter of 1937, at the ripe old age of fourteen, and lay buried in the garden at Rosenberg, in sight of the Alps; resting under a pine tree which Max himself had planted to mark the spot. At least Fritz had a grave whereas …

Edith's lip quivered.

An unbidden tear rolled down her cheek which she wiped away impatiently with the back of her hand. She sniffed heavily. No, she would not think of what she had lost. Not now. Like Scarlett O'Hara, she would think about it, if not tomorrow, then some other time. Nor would she give in to her emotions. By birth a Crawley and by marriage a Schõnborn, for the sake of little Kurt, she had to stay strong.

On board the raft there were now several other survivors of the sinking and who, in the last couple of hours, had swum along side, to be helped aboard by both Edith herself and by Tom Benson; a mixture of both civilians and those in the armed services; some badly burned, all of them covered in oil.

"Here, miss". A man, all but naked, offered Edith a gulp of fresh water from a battered canteen.

She smiled and then shook her head; indicated instead that he should give it to the badly injured man lying in the bottom of the raft.

With the German bombers and fighters wheeling away towards the east, it seemed that the attack on the survivors of the Lancastria was finally at an end. Save for the cries and screams for help from those still alive and drifting in the oily waters, an unearthly calm and eerie silence now descended on the scene of the sinking.

"I think we've seen the last of those bastards! Don't worry! Now they've gone our boys will soon be on their way out here".

"Thank God!"

"Yes! Will you look! There!" Benson and several others now punched the air and then pointed excitedly towards the distant coast.

"What?"  
"There! Over there!"

Gazing intently in the direction in which they were all now pointing, although yet still some distance off, Edith saw that, at long last, a flotilla, formed of warships of the Royal Navy and all manner of small boats was approaching the scene of the disaster.

But their relief proved short lived.

Several hundred feet above the life raft, the lone Messerschmitt 109 made ready for one last sortie. Banking steeply, diving in from the east, swooping low across the blood and oil stained sea, with the drifting raft directly in the pilot's sights, the fighter's machine guns blazed a deadly hail of bullets.

* * *

 **Somewhere in south west England, 22nd June 1940.**

Much as the Crawley earls of Grantham had resided at Downton Abbey for several centuries, so too several generations of the Bartons, prosperous yeoman farmers in the past, had lived and continued to do so, albeit in reduced circumstances, at Sheepwash Farm, Shute Cross, on the southern slopes of Dartmoor in the south west of England.

To date, the only connection, between the ancestral home of the Crawleys and the county of Devon had been an exceedingly tenuous one which, strange to relate, was in fact Dartmoor; to be more precise the grim prison at Princetown. For it was here, in the summer of 1921, in the closing months of the Irish War of Independence, that Tom Branson had found himself incarcerated, on charges of treason and espionage; charges which he knew to be completely false.

Though he could never prove it, Tom suspected Winston Churchill's hand in all of this; given what Tom himself could have said about the brutal activities and excesses committed down in County Cork by the Black and Tans and the Auxiliaries, both creations of Churchill first as Secretary of State for War and then as Secretary of State for the Colonies whose duties included responsibility for Ireland. The brutality of the Tans and the Auxies had not been confined to County Cork. However, it was here that some of their worst atrocities in Ireland had been committed, including the horrific incident at Allihies in which Tom himself had so very nearly lost his life when he and several other men being held prisoner by the Tans had been thrown alive down the shaft of an abandoned copper mine.

Tom's subsequent release from prison had come just as suddenly and unexpectedly as had his arrest, with all charges against him being dropped; following, not that Tom knew it at the time, the intervention on his behalf by the late Michael Collins, Chief of Staff of the new National Army of the the nascent Irish Free State.

Fate often has a habit of playing strange tricks. Now, some eighteen years later the connection between Dartmoor and Downton Abbey was about to be renewed, in the most unexpected of circumstances, not least in part, owing to the strong right hook possessed by Private 13472 Eddie Doyle of the Royal Irish Fusiliers.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, 23rd June 1940.**

Finally, having finished relating the appalling news which he had to tell, regarding the sinking of the Lancastria off St. Nazaire and the deaths of both Edith and little Kurt, Matthew fell silent. For a long while thereafter it seemed that the ensuing stillness in the Drawing Room would never end. Mary and Sybil looked ashen; horrified, stunned beyond measure. Sybil sat with her head bowed, while Mary twisted her damp handkerchief repeatedly between her hands.

"You mean there's no hope? None at all?" asked Mary weakly.

"Well, one can always hope but ..." Matthew shook his head. "I do think we have to face the fact that..."  
"Oh, Matthew, don't!"

"Didn't Friedrich give you any more details?" asked Sybil, her eyes red from weeping. What with Tom, and now this! And just what on earth had become of Danny?

"Not really; other than that Max and he were alive. That Edith and Kurt ... It was a miracle he got through at all. I think there was someone in the room with him when he telephoned. That probably accounts for why he didn't say very much about what happened".

The sisters had been buoyed somewhat by the fact that, against all the odds, Friedrich and Max had survived the appalling disaster to the Lancastria. Exactly how this had come about, for the present at least, none of them yet knew. They were alive and that was all that mattered; having made it back to England on board the battered, bomb damaged SS Oronsay, which had docked in Plymouth a few days ago. Given all that had happened, that shortly after the two men had disembarked and set foot on English soil, for both father and son to have been arrested on the mistaken belief that they were German spies, seemed the cruelest of all ironies.

The initial reaction of Mary and Sybil to the terrible news had been one of utter disbelief and that somehow there must be some mistake.

"But they can't be! Not Edith! Not little Kurt! Why, he's only eight years old! God! This bloody, bloody war!" exclaimed Mary, completely distraught.

Since that never-to-be-forgotten summer of 1932, spent together in a villa overlooking Florence, following Mary saving Max's life when, aged nine years old, he had taken a heavy tumble down a steep flight of marble steps and she, without any regard for herself, had placed herself in harm's way to cushion the young boy's near fatal fall, once Mary had recovered, she and Edith had come to their own understanding of each other. These days, the two sisters, while never bosom pals, rubbed along tolerably well, Edith well aware that she owed Mary the life of her haemophiliac son; Mary doing her very best to curb her penchant for biting sarcasm and trouble-making which, it could be argued, had led, indirectly, to the incident that caused young Max's tumble in the first place.

Equally, Mary had a very soft spot for young Max, although he was a little boy no longer. Indeed, having seen him just last summer, when they were all together at La Rosière, with Max, now a strapping sixteen year old, Mary had provoked laughter all round when she warned him in front of the assembled members of the family to take very great care of himself when walking down any garden steps he might happen to encounter. Here Mary had paused - looked Max pointedly up and down - and then said that these days she doubted very much that she would have the strength to break any fall he might have.

"All those poor, poor people," said Sybil softly, shaking her head.

"The world's gone insane! Utterly insane!"

" I'm so very glad that Papa isn't alive to see or hear any of this".

"God knows how we're going to tell Mama," said Mary.

"Then don't! At least not now. The shock of it all might prove too much. And ... what about telling darling Tom? He's always been so very, very fond of Edith. How on earth am I going to … It's just as well that he's ..."

Mary's eyes glimmered. It was just possible that ... Yes! A ray of hope! Oh, please let it be so!

"Maybe ..."

"Maybe what?" asked Sybil, sensing a change in Mary's demeanour.

With the reality of what had happened being too awful to contemplate, that of course would come later. desperate to clutch at anything which might offer them some consolation, some hope, Mary and Sybil, began considering a whole raft of possibilities, any one of which could lend credence to the notion that Edith and Kurt were somehow still alive.

For the time being, Matthew let Mary and Sybil run on with their ideas and theories. After all, while serving out on the Western Front during the Great War, he had heard men under his command do exactly the same; when their mates had been posted as _Missing In_ _Action_. And who, however forlorn the hope that somehow their pals could still be alive, persisted in clinging on to it until finally, at last, the grimness of reality dawned and they could then mourn their dead.

"If I understood you correctly, from what Friedrich told you, everything there was in complete chaos?"

Matthew nodded his head.

"Yes, but I don't think either of you ..." Matthew stopped in mid-sentence. No, he thought, let them clutch at straws; anything which might give them some relief from the nightmare of what had happened off St. Nazaire. From what his contact up in London in the War Office had told him, when the Lancastria went down, thousands had died.

"Well, then, in all the confusion, what happened, is quite simple. They must have got off the ship another way".

"Mary, darling, I don't think you understand. There simply wasn't time for..." Again Matthew fell silent.

"Yes! That's it! Then, when she went down both of them were picked up by another ship to the one that Friedrich and Max ..." began Sybil, her eyes and her voice lighting with obvious relief.

"Yes! That must be it!" cried Mary. "Matthew, darling, you did say that there were other ships nearby, didn't you?"  
"Yes. Yes, I did. But I think you both have to realise that ..."  
"Of course! They're on another ship! Now why on earth didn't we think of that before. Maybe they've already arrived in Plymouth and have been reunited".

"Or if not, then they're on their way to meet them now. Friedrich hasn't been able to let us know because ..." Seeing Sybil's brows knit in confusion, Mary came swiftly to her rescue.

"Well, he had the greatest difficulty in getting through in the first place, what with those grubby little men holding him and Max well nigh incommunicado until he happened to mention that he was Matthew's brother-in-law!".

Ever since 1919, when at the Shelbourne Hotel, Mary had intervened to prevent Tom being beaten up by constables of the now long disbanded Dublin Metropolitan Police, she had had a very low opinion of the forces of law and order. With the exception of old PC Jennings down in the village, Mary equated all other police officers, whatever their rank, to nothing better than thugs in uniforms.

"Besides which, there 's been nothing in the papers about this at all. Any of it. If it was as bad as you say, then that doesn't make any sense".

Sadly Matthew shook his head.

"I told you why there's been nothing about it in the papers. The Prime Minister decided that with France surrendering to Germany on the very same day, to let the newspapers, to use one of Tom's phrases, _run the_ _story_ , of what had happened to the Lancastria would have been too demoralising for the general public".

"But surely the story will get out eventually? Why not be honest about what's happened?"

Matthew smiled a thin smile.

"The first casualty in any war is the truth. Of course, something will have to be said, eventually. But I doubt the whole story will come out. And, if it does, not for a very long time indeed!"

There was a discrete knock at the door, Barrow entered the Drawing Room and came to stand next to Matthew. Try as they might neither he nor Mary could ever warm to the man. For Matthew it was because of something Tom had told him, about how during the Great War Barrow had been so impertinent as to try and quiz him about matters no gentleman would ever consider discussing. For Mary it was far more simple; Barrow wasn't Carson and never would be.

Barrow cleared his throat.

"Yes, what is it, Barrow?"  
"A telephone call for you, sir".

Matthew nodded.

"And?"

" **And** , sir?" Barrow looked mystified.

" **Who** is it?" asked Matthew curtly. At times Barrow could be so bloody circumlocutious and today, of all days, the earl of Grantham was in no mood for playing question and answers with the butler.

"A young lady, sir. By the name of Barton".

"Barton?"  
"Yes, sir".

"Barton?" repeated Matthew, shaking his head. "I don't know anyone by that name. Did she say where from exactly?"

"I didn't quite catch the name of the place but I understand she is telephoning from Devonshire".

" **Devonshire**?"

"She was most insistent that she speak with you, sir".

"Perhaps it's news of Danny!" exclaimed Sybil now visibly brightening once again. Even so, her elation was short lived. "But if so, then why isn't he telephoning himself?"

Not that, once she became aware of what had happened, Sybil blamed Matthew for sending Danny down to Plymouth to meet Friedrich and Max and bring them back here to Downton. In the present circumstances it made perfect sense. After all, Danny was the only one of them who could have gone. But then why hadn't he been in touch? Granted, he had telephoned from Bristol Temple Meads station as arranged but thereafter nothing further had been heard from him. He should have reached Plymouth by 7.30pm on the 22nd. Ever the optimist, Matthew said that it was probably nothing more than the fact that with the strains being placed on the railway system by the demands made on it by the war, his train had been cancelled, delayed, or else even re-routed.

But when Friedrich had telephoned from Plymouth, he said that Danny wasn't with them; neither he nor Max had seen sight or sound of him. And with every passing hour, with still no news from Danny, Sybil sensed that something must be wrong; terribly wrong.

* * *

 **Somewhere in south west England, 22nd June 1940.**

At nineteen years of age, intelligent, with fair hair, freckles and blue eyes, someone who turned young men's heads wherever she went, and she knew it too, Claire was the second eldest of the five children born to Bert and Thirza Barton of Sheepwash Farm, Shute Cross, in South Devon.

While her elder brother Harold had followed in his father's footsteps and was now helping his dad to run the farm, next in line came Claire's brother Edward who was eighteen and who had joined the Great Western Railway, followed by Francis known in the family as Frank who was thirteen and also now helping out on the farm. The two youngest children, Marian and Margaret, aged nine and seven respectively were pupils at the Public Elementary School in Ugborough.

However, from an early age, growing up at Sheepwash, Claire knew that she wanted far more from life than was to be found in a remote hamlet on the southern slopes of Dartmoor. The scholarship she had won to Plymouth High School For Girls had been the start of it; lodging with Aunt Rose her mother's sister, who lived in Mutley, having married a clerk in the Plymouth offices of the Cunard shipping line, during the week, and going home at week-ends back to the farm. With her schooling at an end and with an excellent set of results, she had been accepted at the London School of Medicine for Women to train as a doctor. Then, suddenly, her mother died, the war had begun, and Claire had no alternative but to come back home to help look after both her widowed father and her younger brothers and sisters. It seemed that, for the time being at least, medical school would have to wait.

This June evening, rather than moping over the likely postponement of her going up to London, after all there really was no use crying over spilt milk, Claire was rather more concerned with keeping control of Merry her chestnut mare, who was proving more mettlesome and skittish than was usually the case. What's got into you, she thought. as they clattered down Dean Steep from the farm and then splashed through the ford at the bottom of the hill.

At last, thankfully without mishap, they reached the quiet country station at Wrangaton. Jumping down from the saddle, Claire tied the reins of the mare loosely to the railings which formed the station fence. Then, taking the satchel which contained her brother Edward's supper, and which was what had brought her down here to the station on this warm summer's evening in the first place, she set off, bound for the signal box which lay some distance beyond the west end of the station.

Claire's normal route to her intended destination lay along a narrow track leading beneath a grove of Scots pine trees, across the top of the cutting in which lay the platforms of the little station, and then past the cattle pens. However, this evening, for some reason, which afterwards she could not fathom, instead, she walked down the steep flight of steps and onto the platform.

A moment later and she heard a man groan ...

* * *

 **Sheepwash Farm, Shute Cross, Devon, 23rd June 1940.**

Danny struggled to sit up and, as he did so, the room, with its parchment painted walls and sloping ceiling came slowly in to sharp focus; so too the face of the girl now sitting beside the bed in which he found himself lying.

"Lie still!" she urged, laying her cool hand gently on his forehead and settling him back against the pillows. He tried to smile and then winced with pain. Cautiously, he touched his bottom lip; saw there was blood on the end of his forefinger. Even so, despite one of his eyes being closed, he could see that the girl was pretty. Very pretty indeed.

"If you say so, for sure!" He sighed heavily.

"I do. For sure!"

Irish then, at least by the sound of him. She hadn't been certain; at least not at first; what with his swollen and split lip which, for the present, was making it difficult for him to speak clearly.

"What's your name?"  
"Danny. Danny Branson. From Dublin. Where am I?"

Definitely Irish.

"Claire. Claire Barton. And you're at my father's farm. We brought you back here from where I found you ... down at the station".

"We?"  
"Yes, my brother Edward and I. He's a signalman. He works for the Great Western".

Realising that beneath the sheets and blankets, save for a pair of pyjama bottoms, he was naked, Danny suddenly flushed.

"My clothes?" he asked weakly.

"When I found you, I'm afraid you were in rather a state. There was a great deal of blood. I had to take them off you and then wash them. They're out there, drying on the line, in the sunshine". Claire pointed over to the window.

" **Take them off** **me**? You mean you ..."  
"Undressed you? Yes".

"Jaysus! Feck!" Danny gulped and flushed red.

"Oh, spare me your blushes!" laughed Claire. "I intend on becoming a doctor and besides, I've three brothers. So, I haven't seen anything which I haven't seen before!"

Danny swallowed hard; neither comment was re-assuring or, for that matter, especially flattering.

When he was up to it, said Claire, the local constable would call and take a statement about what happened. Fortunately, while he had extensive bruising, according to Dr. Wayte there were no bones broken. Nonetheless, Danny's injuries could have been a great deal worse, as Claire herself had thought, when she found him, semi-conscious, lying in a pool of blood, on the platform down at the station.

Yet, beneath all of the cuts and bruises, unpleasant as they were, Claire could see that the young man now lying in her brother Harold's bed was very good looking. And, from what she had seen of Danny, stripped off, and lying stark naked on the kitchen table as she and Dr. Basset tended to his injuries, despite what she had just said, he was also a fine figure of a young man.

"So ... you want to be a doctor, is it?" asked Danny now looking anywhere but at Claire.

"Yes. I was supposed to be going up to the London in the autumn to start my training but what with one thing and another and now the war ... "

"I'm sure you'll make a very fine doctor".

"Maybe. But enough about my troubles. How do you feel about trying to eat something?"

"For sure. But before that there's something I must ask you. You see I was on my way to meet ..."

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, 23rd June 1940.**

"So that explains why Danny didn't ... Yes, Barrow. What is it now?" asked Matthew somewhat peremptorily as, unexpectedly, the butler re-entered the Drawing Room.

"Another telephone call, sir. This time for Lady Sybil".

Barrow saw his prey grimace in disgust; knew, even all these years later, just how much it riled _Mrs. Branson_ , to be referred to by her former title. Knew too that the earl of Grantham would say nothing. After all how could he? Whatever Lady Sybil might choose to call herself that was who she was; even if she had chosen to marry that thick Irish mick of an ex-chauffeur.

"Who is it?" asked Sybil. Unable to mask her emotions, her voice quavered. Thank God they all now knew what had happened to Danny; the victim of an unprovoked assault on a train but all that mattered was that he was safe and that in time his injuries would heal. So who...

"Miss Saiorse from the hospital. She asked that you ..."

Not bothering to wait for whatever else it was that Barrow had been about to say, in the same instant, Sybil was on her feet and running for the door. Barrow smiled inwardly. There really was no need for such unseemly haste. Not when all he had wanted to tell her was that ...

In the hall, Sybil headed straight for the table by the door and grabbed hold of the receiver.

"Saiorse? Darling, is that you?"

"Oh Ma! Ma!"

"What is it? What's happened?"  
"It's Da. He's ..."

* * *

 **Cottage Hospital, Downton, 23rd June 1940.**

Sybil's eyes glistened; wet with unbidden tears. Well, let then come she thought. She really didn't care.

"How are you my very own darling?" she asked, stroking his forehead gently with the tips of her fingers.

"I've been better for sure!" croaked Tom. Then he did something which was guaranteed to melt her heart. He smiled his endearing lop-sided grin.

And in that instant, Sybil knew all would be well.

* * *

 **Wrangaton Station, Devon, 24th June 1940.**

Awaiting the arrival of the 1030 stopping train from Plymouth, Claire Barton and the porter stood together on the gravelled surface of the Up platform while, stretched out on the top of the empty luggage trolley beside them, the station cat basked in the warmth of the morning sunshine. A bee droned past in the summer heat; the air heavy with the scent of meadowsweet and new mown hay. There was a sudden whinny and Claire glanced up towards where, a short while before, she had left the pony and trap with the horse, as before, tethered to the railings, beneath the pine trees, next to the brick station building at the top of the cutting.

"Not afraid, be 'ee, miss?"  
"Afraid? Why on earth should I be afraid, Harry?" Claire raised her eyebrows, regarding the young man beside her with a mixture of both evident surprise and not a little annoyance. "And for God's sake, Harry, please do stop keep calling me miss!"

Harry grinned.

Claire had known Harry Luscombe all her life, since from when they were both children; his parents farmed the land across the stream on the opposite side of the valley beneath Ugborough Beacon; knew too that Harry had always been sweet on her.

"Them's Jerries you be waitin' on, Claire".

She laughed at him.

"They're not Jerries. In fact, they're not German at all. They're both Austrian. From Austria".

"Austrian, German, tiz one and t'same. Bliddy furriners, the lot of 'em!"  
"Well, it isn't. And they're not. From what I hear, they've had a pretty rough time of it recently. Chased out of their own country and now out of France. Or so I've been told".

Glancing towards the signal box, Claire saw her brother leaning out of the window and, catching sight of her, he gave her a cheery wave. She waved happily back; saw Edward tap the face of his watch. There was a tinkling of bells, the signal arm dropped to clear and, a minute or so later, towards Ivybridge, a whistle sounded, heralding the arrival of the early morning train from Plymouth. A few moments more and it drew in alongside the platform and came to a stop.

Towards the rear of the train a door opened, swung back against the side of a carriage, and then was slammed shut. Glancing down the length of the waiting train, Claire saw that only two passengers had got off. Both were men, who stood looking about them, as though they were unsure as to quite what they should do next. On seeing their evident hesitation, Claire now made to move in their direction, while at the same time, having completed taking on water, there was another whistle from the engine and the train began to move off, next stop Brent and then calling at all stations, on its way to Exeter.

"Do 'ee want me to come with 'ee?" asked Harry, hopefully.

Claire shook her head.

"Thanks, Harry. That's very kind of you, but no. I'll be fine".

By way of reassurance, she let her hand briefly brush against the sleeve of his porter's uniform and then, leaving Harry standing where he was, walking slowly, Claire set off. By the time she reached the two men, she had walked almost the entire length of the platform. As she walked, Claire had been trying to remember their surname and which Danny had told her up in Harold's bedroom back at the farm. Now, even if her very life had depended on it, try as she might, she couldn't recall it. Claire drew level with the men and stopped.

From what Danny had told her, not only were the family Austrian but Austrian aristocracy to boot and with some connection to the earls of Grantham in distant Yorkshire. The father, Danny's uncle Friedrich, was an archaeologist. With all this in mind, Claire assumed that, in some way, those she had come to meet would be a cut above; something out of the ordinary. Instead, she was confronted by two individuals both of them dressed in ill fitting and obviously borrowed clothes, who looked decidedly dishevelled, tired and distinctly ill at ease. Claire felt a sudden rush of sympathy and in an attempt to calm their fears, she did what, in similar circumstances, any other kindly disposed person would have done; she smiled.

"Are you … are you Mr. Branson's uncle and cousin?" she asked hesitantly. "Danny Branson?" she echoed.

Friedrich nodded slowly and then stiffly held out his hand.

"Yes, young lady. I am Herr Schönborn, Danny's uncle". Briefly they shook hands. "And this … this is Danny's cousin. My son. Max".

Nothing Danny had told Claire about his cousin could in any way have prepared her for Max. For, it was on seeing him, that for the first time in her life Claire experienced the feeling of going weak at the knees and, if the truth be told, also feeling slightly light-headed. Of course, Danny had mentioned to her that his cousin Max had experienced serious health problems and with her intention to train as a doctor, Claire's curiosity had been justifiably piqued. Apparently, it was something to do with his blood; not that Danny fully understood the exact nature of the problem. But it seemed that Max had to look after himself. So with this in mind Claire had expected to see …

Well, just what had she expected to see?

The answer to that was probably the pale shadow of a young man, someone who was clearly delicate, perhaps even an invalid, and who walked with the aid of a stick. Instead, standing before her in the morning sunshine, despite his ill fitting clothes, with his left arm in a sling, and the distinct whiff about him of what she assumed must be engine oil, was a handsome, well-built young man, with sandy hair, blue eyes and a ready smile.

For his part, Max was equally entranced by the undeniably pretty young woman now before him. With her fair hair tied back in a long plait, her sparkling blue grey eyes, her sunburned, freckled face and her equally open smile, she radiated both health and happiness. Nodding his head approvingly, Max found himself smiling back at her.

"Fraulein," he said; his eyes alive with mirth.

Then, just as he had done all those years ago at the Gare Maritime in Calais, when he had met his uncles and aunts for that very first time, now, as if he had been standing in the Schönbrunn Palace in distant Vienna and not on the platform of a quiet country station in Devonshire, taking Claire's right hand he executed a perfect baisse main. Then, letting go of her hand, Max straightened up. He grinned again and this time it was Claire who smiled in return.

"Welcome to England," she said quietly, never for an instant taking her eyes off Max's face. "Shall we?" With her hand she indicated the steps leading up from the platform to the road above.

Some would say that there is no such thing as love at first sight. However, on this warm summer's morning, if anyone had asked Max Schönborn and Claire Barton for their opinion on the matter, the idea that there was no such thing was something with which both of them would have most profoundly disagreed.

Because, for once, it was true.

* * *

 **Dublin, Republic of Ireland, 24th June 1940.**

About the very same time that Claire Barton was standing on the platform at Wrangaton down in Devonshire, awaiting the arrival of the 1030 train from Plymouth, across the Irish Sea, a scruffy tramp steamer was nosing its way slowly up the Liffey river where shortly afterwards, within sight of the rebuilt Customs House, it moored alongside Pope's Quay in Dublin.

Despite war having broken out between Britain and Germany, the conflict posed no threat to the shipping of non belligerents and, on the face of it, Ireland, Portugal and Spain were just such neutral countries with their vessels safe from attack. So, save for a patch of rough weather, encountered in the Bay of Biscay, the voyage of the _Pedro_ , from its home port of Bilbao across the Atlantic Ocean to distant Dublin, had proved singularly uneventful.

As the _Pedro_ drew finally to a stop, a young, dark haired woman came up on deck and walked slowly over to the gunwale. A moment later she smiled and reaching down, gathered to her the small boy who had come to stand beside her on the deck. Then, picking him up, holding him in her arms, the little boy gurgling with laughter, excitedly she pointed out all the buildings lining the wharf.

"Esta es la casa de tu padre," said Carmen.

 **Author's Note:**

For what happened to Tom and the others at the mine at Allihies, see "Home Is where The Heart Is", Chapter One Hundred And Forty Five.

For Tom's arrest, see "Reunion", Chapter Three.

It is perfectly true that in order to prevent the public from learning what had happened to the Lancastria, Churchill slapped a "D" Notice on the incident, preventing British newspapers from reporting it and for the reason that Matthew gives to Mary and Sybil. Even now, some seventy six years later, it is unclear if the whole story has been told or if it ever will be.

Established in 1874, the London School of Medicine for Women was the first medical school in Britain to train women.

Long closed, the little station at Wrangaton between Exeter and Plymouth was as is described.

For when Max meets Matthew, Mary, Tom and Sybil for the first time see "The Rome Express", Chapter Five.

"Heath Robinson" named after William Heath Robinson (1872-1944) an English cartoonist and illustrator; the phrase applies to a temporary fix using materials which are to hand.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Homeward Bound

 **Sheepwash Farm, Shute Cross, Devon, 24th June 1940.**

The sound of the departing train faded away, until all that could be seen was a plume of white steam marking its passage as it headed off eastwards towards Brent and onwards, all stations to Exeter. Having unhitched the pony from the fence, with Max seated beside her on the high box and Friedrich on the back seat below, Claire deftly turned the trap away from the station.

Beneath a cloudless blue sky, they clattered off down the metalled drive towards the sparkling waters of the ford and its centuries old grey stone clapper bridge. A short while later, having passed a row of thatched cottages, where washing hung drying on a line, and a young boy and a girl whom Claire evidently knew waved happily to them, the trap splashed through the gurgling ford at the foot of Dean Steep.

Soon afterwards they began the long climb up the deep, high banked lane to the distant farm. Hereabouts, the air smelt damp and earthy. On either side the narrow lane was awash with colour; rose-reds, whites, and blues where campion, stitchwort, cow parsley, meadowsweet and bluebells mingled with the yellow of buttercups and flags. And from beneath there peeped the bright green of moss and of fern; of maidenhair, hart's tongue, and wall rue.

Sitting on the back seat, lost in melancholy thought, Friedrich could see little except the high banks and the grass grown lane as it receded behind them. Even if from his lofty vantage point on the box, Max was afforded a far better view of the surrounding countryside beyond the lane than was his father, he saw little of it; not even the brooding granite mass of the bracken clad southern slopes of Dartmoor which formed the distant horizon. Instead, entranced, he looked across at Claire who, conscious of his blue eyes upon her, likewise turned her head and smiled happily at the young man seated beside her.

So, as the trap bowled on along the lane, they began to talk; hesitantly at first, both scarcely believing their own good fortune, initially unsure as to whether the other harboured the same feelings. Confidence in each grew, helped greatly by the fact that Max spoke very good English with barely a trace of an accent. As the gradient steepened and the horse slowed to a walk, with the occasional word spoken to Friedrich, Max and Claire continued to chat of this and that; for the most part of their respective families.

While Max learned something of the farm, of her father, of her brothers and sisters and of her avowed intention to train as a doctor, postponed for the time being both on account of the death of her mother and the war, Claire heard some of what Danny had already told her. How Max's family had first fled Austria in 1938, then settled in France, on the banks of the Loire, how his mother Edith, Danny's aunt, and Max's younger brother Kurt, had both been lost when the ship they had all boarded to escape to safety in England had been bombed by the Germans and sunk off St. Nazaire. That when they came ashore in Plymouth he and his father had been arrested and then a few days later released, taken to the railway station at Plymouth North Road, given tickets, put on the train bound for Exeter and told to get off at Wrangaton where they would met although unless they had misunderstood, by whom had not been made at all clear.

"How awful for you; I'm so very, very sorry," said Claire softly, resting her hand lightly on Max's thigh.

"Thank you".

Then it was Claire's turn to explain how all that had come about as a result of what had happened to Max's cousin Danny who, having travelled down from Yorkshire, while on his way to meet with his uncle and cousin, had the singular misfortune to have been beaten up and thrown off the train at Wrangaton. When Max blanched, Claire quickly assured him that while not pleasant to look at, Danny's injuries were not life threatening, and given time would heal. Continuing in her matter-of-fact tone, Claire explained how she had found Danny lying on the platform down at the station and that with the help of her brother had brought him back here to the farm and called the local doctor; all of which was related to Max as if it was nothing out of the ordinary but of everyday occurrence.

"It's not far now," Claire said, pointing with her whip towards the crest of the lane.

So it proved. For, as the trap finally crested the rise and then rounded a corner, a cluster of walls and thatched roofs hove into view. By a dilapidated gate, his back resting against the rough stone wall of barn, seated out in the warmth of the morning sunshine, sat a huddled figure who, at the sound of the approaching trap, now raised his head and waved his hand in friendly greeting. And it was with a profound sense of shock that Max recognised the bandaged young man as his much loved Irish cousin, Danny Branson.

* * *

 **Grand Charpentier Roads, off St. Nazaire, 17th June 1940.**

As bullets continued to pepper the life raft and the surface of the water like a nest of hornets, there came screams and shouts.

Then silence.

Its deadly work done, with the flotilla of ships fast approaching the scene of the disaster, the Messerschmitt soared skywards, banked, and headed eastwards.

* * *

 **Cottage Hospital, Downton, Yorkshire, England, 25th June 1940.**

Having left Tom and Saiorse sitting comfortably together on a bench on the wooden verandah at the rear of the Cottage Hospital in the afternoon sunshine, Sybil had stepped inside for a moment to fetch them all a jug of barley water.

"Da ..."  
"Hm?"

"Rob loves me and I love him".

"Well now. Is that a fact for sure?"

She nodded.

"I think I always have".

"Darlin', to love and be loved, that's all that really matters. The rest is detail. I'm so very happy for the two of you". He squeezed her hand comfortingly.

"Then will you, Da?" Just as she had done countless times before ever since she was a little girl, Saiorse rested her head comfortably against her father's shoulder. A moment later and she felt his fingers lightly caress her hair.

"For sure," Tom said again and smiled.

That her beloved Da was getting better meant everything to Saiorse. And now that he had given her his blessing to marry Rob, like her mother, Saiorse knew all would be well.

* * *

 **St. Nazaire** **, Western France** **, 17th June 1940.**

After an hour or so, having passed slowly between the two lighthouses at the end of the moles, the tug _Bernadette_ finally moored alongside the Quai Demange in the Bassin de St. Nazaire, among the wharves and the jetties, beneath the massive cranes and derricks, close to where in former, happier times the great transatlantic liners had once docked, and now at last began the task of discharging its pitiful cargo of shocked survivors from the lost Lancastria.

Despite having been in the water for several hours, apart from being very tired, some were without a scratch upon them, others injured to greater or lesser degrees, including several who had been badly hurt, with bones broken sustained in jumping into the sea from the sinking liner, scalded by escaping steam, or else burned by the fires set by the flares dropped by the German bombers and fighters.

Like all those others brought back to St. Nazaire, those aboard the _Bernadette_ were all covered to varying degrees in the oil which had leaked into the sea from the ruptured fuel tanks of the Lancastria. Lacking most of their uniforms, having lost all the rest of their kit, some were wearing nothing more than their underclothes, while others were completely naked, all now warmly wrapped in blankets which, along with hot red wine, they had been given aboard the tug, and which afforded them some semblance of decency.

Here in St. Nazaire, while some of the survivors were stretchered off the tug, others needing the help of their pals and mates to make it down the gangway onto the quay, there were those still able to shift more or less for themselves, among them Edith and young Kurt leading the dog by the makeshift lead fashioned for it by Tom Benson. As they made their way down the gangway Edith reflected ruefully that had it not been for his heroism and that of the others on the liferaft in sacrificing themselves in order to save both her and Kurt, then neither of them would still be alive.

Down on the quayside, Red Cross ambulances and lorries were waiting in line to take all of them to hospital. Now, as they set off, bound for the Boulevard Gambetta, from what Edith could see from of the rear of the lorry into which she, Kurt and the dog had been helped, St. Nazaire itself was in complete uproar, with tumult and confusion the order of the day. Under near constant shellfire, on foot, by car or by train, more and more terrified, panic-stricken refugees were streaming into town, all desperate to secure safe passage to England on board one of the ships they could see still riding at anchor out in the bay. For, in the bars, in the cafés, on the terrasses, on the terrains, in the public parks, in the squares, and in the streets, the single word on everyone's lips was **_quand_**?

 **When** would the enemy arrive?

Some said a few hours; others a couple of days but all were agreed that it was only a matter of time before the town and its port fell to the advancing Germans.

Had it not been for the press of traffic, and an altercation between a motorcycle and a car, then the lorry would never have come to a stand where it did, right in the middle of the Place Carnot with its distinctive four sided clock. Recognising where they were, Edith came to a fateful and momentous decision. Having clambered down out of the rear of the lorry, she now turned and helped Kurt do the same. Then, drawing all manner of strange looks, still accompanied by the dog, the two of them walked slowly across the thronging square and into the Grand Café.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, 26th June 1940.**

"Matthew, I still don't see why on earth you have to plough up the East Lawn. It's been there for hundreds of years. The trouble with you is that you've absolutely no sense of history".

"It's to do with production".

"Vandalism more like!"

"Darling, needs must".

Mary shook her head in disbelief.

"Needs must. Really? As if we both didn't have enough to contend with already. This terrible, terrible business of Edith and little Kurt. You know, I still haven't said anything to Mama about what's happened? Both Sybil and I are in complete agreement, that we have to choose our moment carefully - when we tell her. It's just as well that her sciatica is playing up and keeping her confined to the Dower House otherwise we'd have had a devil of a time keeping her from learning the news from the children. What with this, darling Tom in hospital, and now a wedding to arrange. Dear God!" Mary sat down heavily on the sofa and buried her face in her hands.

"Ah, yes. I'm glad you mentioned it".  
" **It**?"  
"The wedding".

Mary's head snapped up.

"Oh, and why is that?"

Matthew joined his wife on the sofa, slipped his arm around her shoulders and gently kissed the top of her head. Immediately suspicious, Mary turned and looked at him.

"And?"

"Well, what with one thing and another, I haven't had the chance to tell you. This morning, while you were in the village visiting old Mrs. Taylor in Back Lane and I was down at the Estate Office, Robert telephoned the house, from Croydon. Barrow put him through".

"Is he all right?" Mary asked nervously.

"Yes, darling, he's fine. Don't fret. Daily training sorties, a couple of false alarms. Said he flew a Hurricane over to RAF Tangmere the other day and then caught the train back to Croydon".

Mary breathed an audible sigh of relief.

"Thank God. And?"

"And?"  
"Well, since Robert's such a man of the world, a pilot, a prospective father, about to be married, I don't suppose he rang you up for a fireside chat, man to man, now did he?"  
"Oh, I see what you mean. No, not at all. Among other things, he asked me to tell you that they've decided on a date for the wedding. His CO's agreed Robert can have the leave; a couple of days, no longer. Provided nothing kicks off".

"And you think it might?"  
"I don't know. They've settled on the 20th July. Three weeks from now. Apparently old Davis is content to start calling the banns in church this Sunday".

" **Three weeks**?" Mary sounded appalled. "But that doesn't give me time to organise a damned thing. Honestly, Matthew, don't either of them understand that planning a large wedding like this takes ..."

"Well, that's just it. They want to keep it a quiet affair.

"Do they? _A quiet affair_? That's just the trouble ..."

"Mary, you promised ..." began Matthew.

"All right! I'm not going back on what I said. I still have my misgivings but I've given them my blessing and I'll hold to that. By the way, I expect you know this already but Sybil told me that now Tom's on the mend, since he's had time to think, he's become quite accepting about it all. Apparently, yesterday, he told Sybil that life's too short to make a fuss about such things".

"Well, I think Tom has the right of it".

Mary sighed.

"Yes, well you would. The trouble with darling Tom is that he's an incurable romantic. In fact, both of you are. I'm rather more level-headed and sanguine about these sort of things".

"Maybe". Matthew smiled.

"Why the charming smile?"

"No reason!" Matthew grinned again.

"So, just who precisely are we to expect at this _quiet affair_?"

"The immediate family. Nobody else. Robert and Saiorse think that to make a big show at this particular time, what with the war and the way things are going, not to mention poor Edith and little Kurt, well, they feel it would be rather a mistake".

"I'm not surprised".

"You're not?"

"Not at all. In fact I quite agree".

"You do?"

" **Entirely**!" Mary paused. "Given the fact that by the time the future countess of Grantham walks sedately down the aisle she will be two months pregnant! Honestly, what on earth would Granny and Papa have said?"

Matthew smiled.

"Your grandmother? Probably something very apt and pithy. Even so, she was a realist, as are you, although you won't admit it! Your father? Darling, he was more a man of the world than you give him credit for being. I'm sure he would have taken it all in his stride. You know how much he loved Robert and Saiorse. In any event, outside the immediate family nobody knows that Saiorse is expecting Robert's child and now, since it will only be the family present, no-one else will ever know. By the way, Robert's asked Danny to be his Best Man. I assume he still will be; that's if he's recovered by then".

"Have you heard from him?"

"Twice; once when they were at Gloucester and then again from Leeds. He didn't say much. In fact, I had some difficulty in understanding what he was saying. It was probably the line. Then Friedrich came on the telephone to explain. Anyway, the upshot is that they'll all be here later today; by the early afternoon train".

"Did you tell them?"

"Tell them?"  
"The Committee?"

"What Committee?" Matthew stifled a yawn.

Like Tom, he was not as young as he had been; was finding the long hours he was putting in as a result of all the demands made upon the estate by the war were taking their toll. That apart, it was difficult to keep track of Mary's repeated changes of tack.

"The Committee that's digging up our East Lawn!"  
" **They're** not. **I am**. Well, Earnshaw is. As you can see".

Mary glanced out of the Drawing Room window towards where, in the distance, young Joe Earnshaw had just finished hitching up a team of Shire horses to a plough.

"Under **their** instructions. Did you tell them that it was laid down by Capability Brown?"

"I don't think it would have made the slightest difference".

"Vandal!" Silently Mary mouthed the word at the distant figure of Earnshaw as the tines of the plough cut into the lawn and the first sods began to be turned over.

"I've a private notion that those on the ... what was it you called it again?"

"The County War Agricultural Executive Committee".

"Communists! That's what they are! Bloody Communists!"

"Darling, I hardly think that Sir James Tindall is a paid up member of the British Communist Party. If he was he would have been locked up by now".

"As for this business of the school. Dear God!" Mary pressed her fingers to her temples.

"It's only for a short while. Be thankful it's not the army. At least this way, we get to stay on living here. Just two dozen young boys from St. Dominic's School down in Hastings. If the Germans invade, down there on the South Coast, they'd be right in the thick of it. It's just until more suitable accommodation for them can be found".

"You don't really believe that, do you? Mark my words, Matthew, it's just the thin end of the wedge".

"There's nothing I can do about it. Look, we really don't need all of this great barn of a house and any damage will be paid for".  
" **Damage**?" Mary's ever expressive eyebrows shot heavenwards. "There won't **be** any damage!"

"No, I'm sure there won't," Matthew said soothingly.

"Well at least put them in the East Wing. Then, while they're doing their lessons, they can look out of the windows and have a grandstand view of whatever it is you're growing on what was the East Lawn". Mary glanced through the Drawing Room window again; saw to her dismay that Joe Earnshaw was really getting into his stride as more of the once hallowed grass was put to the plough.

"I'm afraid that isn't an option. As I tried to explain to you last night over dinner, the West Wing is far more suitable".

"Who for? Them or for us?"

Matthew demurred.

"The rooms on that side of the house, both upstairs and down, are far more easy to adapt as temporary classrooms, a washroom, dining room, and as a dormitory for the boys as well as accommodation for their masters".

"Doubtless I shall have been awake for hours, awoken by the ringing of the school bell but tell me, am I to suppose that in future when Emma brings me my breakfast in the **Blue Room** in the **East Wing** and then draws the curtains, I am to be confronted by the sight of a field of turnips?"

"Winter wheat, actually. At least for now".

Mary grimaced.

"My God! It's just like Liberty Hall! You might as well put up a sign saying "To Let" and have done with it! What with the army having felled all the trees in Monks Wood and put up that rash of ghastly little huts, you ploughing up the East Lawn, and the West Wing now given over to a gang of marauding, ragamuffin urchins from Hastings, why don't you go the whole hog? Open up the house as some kind of third rate hotel for any down and outs who happen to pitch up here, plough up the park and turn all of it into bloody fields and allotments!"

"Darling, I hardly think you can call the boys from St. Dominic's marauding, ragamuffin urchins! You make them sound like Attila and his horde of Huns. As I said, there are only twenty four of them. As for ploughing up more of the parkland, there's really no need. At least ... not yet. Besides, Church Field, down there in the village is already being used for allotments".

"What? Not that large field behind Crawley House? The one that's always covered with wild flowers in the summer? Given over to allotments?"  
Matthew nodded his head.

"Well, I'm glad your mother isn't alive to see it. She loved so much to walk there with the grandchildren on Sunday afternoons".

"I'm sure mother would have understood". Matthew sighed.

After a life well lived, following a short illness, his mother, Isobel, had passed away in the winter of 1937. Matthew missed her a very great deal. Remembered with amusement how the erection of his mother's memorial tablet in the parish church, directly **above** that of the late Dowager Countess, had caused the raising of more than a few eyebrows, those of his wife included. Still, it could not be helped; there simply was no further wall space available in the Crawley Chapel.

"And another thing, about Emma. Barrow tells me that she's handed in her notice. I understand that she's going to work in a munitions factory near Leeds".

But, rather surprisingly, this latest catastrophe on the domestic front and its implications for the running of the household seemed not to have registered with Mary for she failed to reply.

"Dear God! Whatever next? This is Downton Abbey! Not the Victoria Palace Theatre!"

Mystified, Matthew watched open-mouthed as his wife rose swiftly to her feet and strode purposefully towards the corner of the room where she flung wide the door leading into the hall. Hearing the music, realising that something was afoot, Matthew hurried after her. A moment later and both of them were standing in the open doorway staring incredulously at the scene unfolding before them.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, 26th June 1940.**

It was very unlikely that in all its three hundred or so years of existence, despite the splendid balls and dances held here, the magnificent old house had ever seen anything quite like it. Barrow, who had come into the hall merely to see to the afternoon's post, certainly hadn't. And _it_ decidedly offended his rarefied sense as to what, in the present doleful circumstances, was right and proper. Not that he had cared especially for Lady Edith but even so the proprieties had to be observed, the more so when beyond the hallowed walls of this house which had been Barrow's life for more years than he cared to think, everything else was going completely to pot.

A short while earlier, upstairs in the old day nursery, given the dreadful news from France, in an attempt to cheer up the younger members of the family and to lift all their spirits, Simon and Saiorse had been teaching Bobby and Rebecca the steps to the Lambeth Walk. With both of them having proved adept and receptive pupils, now, all but having perfected their technique, deciding they needed more space in which to practice, Simon had brought his gramophone from his bedroom down here to the entrance hall of the abbey. Thereafter, once they had cleared an ornate, large table in one of the corners of its clutter of knick-knacks, _a_ _load of old junk_ , as Saiorse termed it, which, not that they knew it, had once belonged to Violet, late Dowager Countess of Grantham, the gramophone had been set up and all was now ready.

Then, with the volume turned up full, the music blared out, resounding through the high-ceilinged entrance hall of the great house. With Simon and Saiorse continuing to offer advice, watched by Dermot and little Emily, and unobtrusively also by two young housemaids who had ceased what they were doing and had come out onto the upper landing of the main staircase to find out what was going on, Bobby Branson and his tomboy cousin Rebecca Crawley put on an exuberant, high-spirited rendition of the dance craze which had swept Britain two years earlier; from the show stopping musical _Me And My Girl_ ; still running at the Victoria Palace Theatre in the West End of London and which had even been attended by Their Majesties King George VI and Queen Elizabeth.

 _Anytime you're Lambeth way,_

 _Any evening, any day,_

 _You'll find us all doin' the Lambeth walk._

 _Every little Lambeth gal,_

 _With her little Lambeth pal,_

 _You'll find 'em all doin' the Lambeth walk._

 _Everything's free and easy,_

 _Do as you darn well pleasey,_

 _Why don't you make your way there,_

 _Go there, stay there._

 _Once you get down Lambeth way,_

 _Every evening, every day,_

 _You'll find yourself doin' the Lambeth walk._

 _Oi!_

It was as the performance began that Mary flung wide the door of the Drawing Room but then recognising it for what, in part it was, a youthful attempt to lighten the sombre mood which had enshrouded the house ever since Tom had been taken ill and then the terrible news of what had happened to Edith and Kurt had become known to the family, Mary said nothing.

Instead, joined by Matthew, she stood watching, spellbound as, completely oblivious to their presence, their daughter Rebecca, partnered expertly by Bobby, he sporting one of his elder brother Danny's waistcoats and a cloth cap, put on a barnstorming show, jauntily strutting their way across the stone-flagged floor of the hall. A few moments later, in what had become the hallmark of the London show, everyone present, including Matthew, Mary, and even Barrow, joined in fortississimo, in belting out the very last word of the chorus.

 ** _Oi!_**

* * *

 **Downton Railway Station, Yorkshire, 26th June 1940.**

Given the heart-rending circumstances, even Mary had been in agreement with the startling break in tradition, suggested by Matthew, of the two of them going down in the Rolls to meet Danny, Friedrich and Max off the Ripon train as opposed to having the motor sent down to convey them all back up to the abbey.

"It's the very least we can do. They've lost so much". Glancing out of the window, Mary caught sight of Joe Earnshaw still busily engaged in his task of ploughing up the the hallowed turves of the East Lawn; something which depressed her spirits still further.

A short while later, driven by Harris, the Rolls purred softly away from the abbey bound for the railway station. Twenty minutes thereafter, standing quietly on the platform in the warm sunshine, awaiting the train, Matthew looked at his watch.

"It should be here soon. By the way, I quite agree with what you said earlier".

"About what?"

"Friedrich and Max. That the two of them are going to need all of us a very great deal in the time ahead".

"They're family, Matthew. And family always comes first".

"I couldn't agree more. Although I find myself wondering if either of them with ever recover from all of this".

"Oh, Matthew, please! I don't suppose your contact up in London in the War ..." She stopped what she was saying when her husband pointedly cleared his throat as someone passed close by them on the platform.

"... Office was able to give you any more news?"  
"No; I am afraid not," Matthew said quietly; lowered his voice still further. "By all accounts, there were thousands left trapped on board when the Lancastria went down. However, among the survivors Archie did manage to speak to was one of the ship's officers who recalled a brief conversation with Friedrich, Edith and the boys when they came on board. God, I only hope it was over quickly for the two of them".

A whistle sounded, and a moment later, wreathed in steam, the branch train drew in beside the platform. Carriage doors opened and slammed shut.

"Well, this is it ..." Matthew squeezed Mary's hand, he hoped reassuringly.

She nodded; took a deep breath. This was not going to be easy.

On the train there had been a handful of people they knew: Jacob Newbold, publican of the Grantham Arms, several villagers, and a couple of tenants from off the estate. Passing by on their way out of the station, some deferentially touched their caps, others nodded, offered the occasional word, all clearly surprised by the unexpected sight of the earl and countess of Grantham standing on the platform meeting the early afternoon train from Ripon.

"Ah! They're they are". Matthew nodded towards the rear of the train. "Good God!"

"Whatever is it?" asked Mary.

"Well, given what they've all been through in the last few days, it seems like Danny's the one who's had the worst of it. Judging by the state of him, he looks as though he's gone a round with Len Harvey!"

As she saw the wretched appearance of the three men, Mary's hand flew to her mouth; her brother-in-law and Max wearing borrowed and ill-fitting clothes, Danny with his head bandaged, Max with his arm in a sling, and Friedrich with a supporting arm about Danny's shoulders. Just as Claire had done a day or so earlier, instinctively, Mary, accompanied by Matthew, set off down the platform to meet them.

"Friedrich, my dear chap!" Matthew held out his hand in greeting. Not releasing his hold on Danny for an instant, Friedrich grasped Matthew's hand; saw his brother-in-law taking in his own woebegone appearance, his tatterdemalion clothes.

"Yes, I know, I know. I really must have a word with my tailors. Regrettably, Knize is not what it was!" Friedrich did his best to summon up a smile.

"It doesn't matter".

Mary moved forward. Her brother-in-law kissed her on both cheeks.

"Dearest Mary ..."

"Friedrich, darling, we're so very, very glad to see the both of you safe and sound. Well, more or less sound!" She smiled and Friedrich did his best to do likewise. By virtue of their aristocratic upbringing both of them understood that now was not the time to mention those who had not been so fortunate; those who were not here with them on the platform at Downton.

"Max!"

"Uncle Matthew". Max nodded; grasped his uncle's proffered hand. "Aunt Mary". Her nephew bent his head slightly and kissed her lightly on the cheek; caught the scent of her eau-de-cologne. Like his darling mother, his Aunt Mary was always immaculately turned out.

Max saw his aunt's nose wrinkle.

"Sorry about the smell, Aunt Mary; it's only oil ... from the ship!"

"Really?" She smiled faintly. Presumably that explained the curious hue to his skin. Then, just at that moment, Danny groaned. While, with some reluctance, Dr. Basset had agreed that Danny could travel back to Yorkshire, the long journey from Devon, with several tiresome changes of train, had well nigh exhausted him.

"Uncle Matthew, Aunt Mary," he said through gritted teeth. "Jaysus! Feck!" Danny winced. "How ... how's my Da?" he asked, heedless of his own injuries.

"Making very good progress," offered Matthew reassuringly. "He's still in hospital. Your Ma's with him now".

Hearing this, Danny brightened visibly. Since he had been away, he had half feared that when they reached Downton ... His uncle's words now served to set his mind at rest. Matthew made to move forward to help but having seen at close quarters her Irish nephew's battered face, the spectacular bruise around his right eye and his bandaged head, Mary was quicker.

"Here, let me help you". To his surprise, Danny felt his aristocratic aunt place her arm about his waist.

"It looks ... a lot worse ... than it is. Aunt Mary, I can manage".

* * *

 **The Shelbourne Hotel, Dublin, Ireland, June 1919.**

 _"Lady Mary, I can manage ..." Tom stopped as a spasm of harsh coughing overtook him; shook his pain wracked body"._

 _"No, Tom, you can't!" she said softly._

* * *

 **Downton Railway Station, Yorkshire, England, 26th June 1940.**

"No, you can't," she said, quietly remembering back. "You know what the trouble with you is, Daniel Branson?"  
"What?" Danny tried to ghost a smile at his aunt but was prevented from so doing by his cut lip.  
"The trouble with you, young man, is that you're just like your dear father!"

The huddle of local people gathered gossiping around the gate beside the station building now saw something which none of them would ever forget. The sight of the elegant countess of Grantham, her hat awry, gently helping a bandaged, battered, and bruised young man over to the Rolls waiting in the station forecourt.

* * *

 **Grand Café, Place Carnot, St. Nazaire, Western France, 17th June 1940**.

The Grand Café, in the Place Carnot, in St. Nazaire, was where Friedrich, Edith and the boys had eaten their last meal before boarding the Lancastria and where at the rear of the building they had left the motor. Now, on seeing Edith and Kurt enter the café, despite their woeful appearance, the _patron_ had recognised them immediately. His wife had hurriedly shepherded them, through a crowd of curious onlookers in the bar, upstairs to the bathroom where straightaway she set about running a hot bath, fetching soap, scrubbing brushes, and towels, while sending someone out to fetch those of their suitcases which had been left behind in the car.

Later that same evening, now bathed and rather cleaner, even if their skin was still stained with oil, in fresh clothes, having eaten the meal provided for them by the _patron_ and for which he would take no payment, with Kurt seated on her lap, his head resting against her shoulder - since the sinking he had not spoken a single word - Edith sat quietly in the kitchen of the café, with the dog lying by the stove.

From the bar came the raucous sounds of a group of British soldiers who, believing that all hope of being rescued was now gone, had settled down to drink themselves into a stupour while awaiting capture by the Germans. The despondency to which the soldiers were audibly giving free rein served only to convince Edith that the decision she had come to earlier was the right one.

Even if at the eleventh hour, there still remained a slim chance that all of those trapped here in St. Nazaire with their backs to the sea could yet be plucked to safety, given what she herself had lost in the disaster that had befallen the Lancastria, Edith no longer trusted to the ability of the British to effect such a rescue. Neither did she relish the idea of being interned by the Germans although it could be argued that by virtue of her marriage, she was an Austrian citizen. However, given Friedrich's well known and outspoken opposition to Hitler and their flight from Austria in 1938 following the Anschluss, Edith had no intention whatsoever of being captured by the Nazis.

So now, as darkness began to fall, with Kurt and the dog packed in like sardines among the luggage on the back seat of the car, Edith drove east, out of St. Nazaire, along a road still clogged with troops and refugees, towards the ferry which connected the town with Mindin close to Saint-Brévin-les-Pins on the south bank of the Loire. If the ferry was still running and they made it safely across the river, Edith had decided that she would head south west, towards Biarritz, where she and Friedrich had good friends; the Zhdanovs, Russian émigrés, who would know what to do about obtaining them the necessary visas. A journey of nearly four hundred miles which, if all went to plan, should take them two or three days and then, God willing, somehow across the border to safety in neutral Spain.

 **Author's Note:**

A French tug called the _Bernadette_ played a part in rescuing survivors from the Lancastria and bringing them back to St. Nazaire.

During 1943, St. Nazaire was very badly bombed by the Allies. Although since rebuilt, it is much changed from the lovely old town it was before the war. While the Grand Café still stands on the Place Carnot, the clock referred to in the story has long since disappeared.

Len Harvey (1907-1976) was an English boxer who, in 1939, was recognised as world light-heavyweight champion in Britain.

Founded in 1858, and still going strong, Knize is the oldest gentlemen's outfitters in Vienna.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Cheerful Weather …

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, 10th July 1940.**

As elsewhere in the country, here at Downton Abbey the summer weather was proving absolutely glorious with no end in sight to the long hot days and balmy nights.

A few days earlier, both Robert and Saiorse had returned, albeit briefly, to the abbey in order for Saiorse to go into Ripon with her mother for a dress fitting and thereafter for Robert and Saiorse to take part in their wedding rehearsal. This, of necessity, had been deferred until Tom had been deemed well enough to be up and about and to walk sedately up and down the aisle of St. Mary's Church several times in the course of a single afternoon. Admittedly with Tom clearly not in the best of health and Danny's still somewhat battered state, Reverend Davis was observed to raise his eyebrows to the extent more usually reserved for the countess of Grantham. This notwithstanding, in the end everything was duly concluded to the satisfaction of all concerned, especially Rebecca and Emily delighted at the prospect of being bridesmaids. Then, with the rehearsal over, early that same evening Robert took the last train into Ripon to catch the London express in order to return to his new squadron, at RAF Biggin Hill down in Kent.

Given that the wedding was to be a quiet affair, with everything more or less arranged, little now remained to be done. With the rationing of all manner of food, including butter, sugar, eggs and dried fruit, despite Mrs. White, the cook, having raided her store cupboards in order to make the cake, the fare for the wedding breakfast was severely curtailed from what it might have been, had circumstances been different. All that was needed now was a fine day, although it seemed unlikely that the present run of absolutely glorious sunshine would break. However, this in itself had brought other problems, for the German Luftwaffe was intent on taking advantage of the fine run of weather to launch a series of repeated attacks on airfields and military installations in the south of England; as well as upon shipping in the English Channel. So, given what had now happened, whether the wedding would take place as scheduled, was anyone's guess.

With Robert having transferred, and at short notice to Biggin Hill, which flew both Spitfires and Hurricanes, like all those pilots based at airfields in the south of England, much to the consternation of both his mother and his fiancée, he now found himself in the thick of things. When on the evening of the the day after the wedding rehearsal Saiorse had pleaded with him over the telephone to ask for another transfer, to somewhere less dangerous, while promising to take the utmost care, Robert's answer to her had been simple and to the point:

"Saiorse, darling, I'm a pilot. It's what I've been trained to do. Nothing will happen to me, I promise".

"Don't make me promises you know you can't keep, Rob".

"I'm not!"  
"Yes you are!"

"Saiorse, I have responsibilities!"

"Don't you dare tell me that! And you think I don't?"

"No of course not. All I meant was …"

"What about your responsibilities **to me** , to our **baby**?"

For a moment, there now followed an uncomfortable silence at the other end of the line.

"Rob, are you still there?"  
"Yes, of course".

"Well …"

"Saiorse, why are we fighting?"  
"We're not".

"Then why are we arguing?"  
"Because you never told me! That's why! Da and Ma … they tell each other everything".

"I know".

"You do?"  
"You've told me often enough".

"Well, that's how I want us to be. Now and when we're married; open and honest, about everything for sure".

"I want that too".

"So will you?"

"Will I what?"  
"Ask for another transfer?"  
"Saiorse, love, I've already told you, I can't". As if to reinforce the reason why she had asked Rob to do as she had, in the background, over the telephone Saiorse heard the mournful wail of the air raid siren.

"Can't or won't?

"Darling, I have to do my job. Just as you do. I have to go now. Love you".

"I love you too".

In the hall of the abbey, Saiorse slowly replaced the receiver and then promptly burst into tears.

Later, that evening, when Sybil found her daughter seated on a bench in the yard at the back of the house, seeing Saiorse's tear-stained face, at first she had feared the worst. Then, when Saiorse related what it was that had happened, sitting with her arm around her daughter's shoulders, and doing her very best to comfort her, Sybil found herself thinking back to an evening when something similar had happened between her and Tom.

* * *

 **Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, Ireland, February 1922.**

Tom arrived home somewhat later than usual and it was that which had probably been the start of it; added to which Saiorse was teething and having a terrible time, unlike Danny, who when they had come through, had happily suffered very little trouble with the cutting of his baby teeth.

"Tom, darling where on earth have you been?"

Tonight, their kiss was perfunctory; little more.

"Something, er, came up".

Although perhaps it would have been better for him if he had, Tom forbore to mention the explosion which had occurred by the side of the railway line just south of Sandymount and which had delayed his train; it would only cause Sybil to worry about him even more than she did.

With Saiorse in her arms, Sybil stood in silence in the narrow hallway and watched impassively as Tom took off his cap and gloves and then hung up his overcoat.

"It always does," came her matter-of-fact reply.

"Sorry!"

"Da!"

On hearing both the front door and his father's voice, little Danny had run pell-mell out from the kitchen straight into the tiled hallway. Sweeping the little boy up into his arms, Tom smothered him with kisses.

"Couldn't you have telephoned?" Their eyes met as he kissed the top of Saiorse's head.  
"Darlin', I did. No reply".

"Hm!" Sybil sounded thoroughly unconvinced.

"There, there, darling. Hush, now". She walked ahead of Tom down the hallway, into the warmth of the kitchen where, resting Saiorse against her shoulder, having stirred the stew bubbling in the pan, Sybil sat down heavily on the Windsor chair beside the range. With Danny on his lap, Tom sat opposite her.

"Did you do this?" He smiled happily down at his young son who had thrust a crumpled drawing into his hands. Danny grinned.

"It's a train, Da!"  
"So I can see. Very good!"

Tom looked up from studying Danny's drawing; wondered idly if in later years it would transpire that the little boy had inherited his mother's talent for sketching.

"Bad day, love?"  
"What do you think?" Sybil sighed heavily. "Honestly, Tom, what with Saiorse teething and with that Eileen, why it's like having three children in the house, not two! I'd be far better off managing on my own!"

Aged sixteen, cheerful and willing but, it must be admitted, none too bright, Eileen was a young girl who, seeking work, had moved from Tralee to Dublin to live with her married cousin and whom, despite Sybil's initial opposition to the very idea, insisting that she could perfectly manage on her own thank you very much, something which Tom would no longer countenance, the Bransons had engaged to help with a variety of domestic tasks about the house.

After the children had been put to bed, with Tom reading _The Tale of Tom Kitten_ by Beatrix Potter to little Danny while Sybil attempted - eventually successfully - to try and settle darling Saiorse, they had gone downstairs to the kitchen to eat their supper during which, Tom had broached the subject of his forthcoming trip north. This had immediately received a frosty reception from Sybil, with the temperature in the hitherto warm and homely kitchen plummeting like the proverbial stone; so much so that in but a matter of minutes it not only matched that outside but was in fact, probably colder by several degrees and with the result, that the latter part of their meal had been eaten in almost complete silence.

With supper over, while Tom washed up, Sybil busied herself taking pillowcases from out of the steaming copper with a pair of wooden tongs and putting them twice through the mangle. Standing at the Belfast, having finished washing the dishes, unwisely, Tom now ventured to raise again the matter of his journey north.

"Darlin', we've been through all of this before. It's my job! I'm a journalist, remember? It's what I do". Tom ran his damp fingers through his hair; a sure sign that he was upset. He so hated to see Sybil upset too; especially when he knew he himself to be the cause of her distress.

"Do you think I don't know that! Tom, there are men younger than you working at the Independent. You've said so yourself. There's... Connor and there's... Whelan for a start. Both of them unmarried and without the responsibilities of a family. Let one of them go".

"Sybil, darlin', Harrington asked specially that I cover this story. He trusts me. Nothing will happen to me. I promise". Tom smiled his familiar lop-sided grin but for once it seemed not to have the desired effect.

Having hung the pillowcases over the wooden airer, Sybil pulled it smartly up into position, tying the cord off over the cleat.

"Don't make me promises you know you can't keep".

"I'm not!"  
"Yes you are!"

"Sybil, I have to do my job".

"Even at the risk of putting yourself in danger all over again?"

With hot tears coursing down her cheeks, wiping her hands on her apron, angrily pushing him away, Sybil moved swiftly out of reach, round to the other side of the kitchen table. Taking the sad iron from off the range she now began ironing a pile of laundry, taking out her heartfelt fears and frustrations on a succession of Tom's shirts; thump, noting here a missing button, thump, a frayed hem, thump. Honestly, while Tom always looked very presentable, she made sure of that, some of his shirts, thump, this one in particular, thump, were almost threadbare. It was his birthday soon, thump; a visit to Kennedy and McSharry's on Westmoreland Street, thump, was clearly in order.

Arms folded, leaning against the kitchen door, silently Tom stood watching his wife. The rhythmic sound of the iron hitting the table had an almost hypnotic quality about it.

Thump.

"Darlin',"

Thump.

"I have responsibilities..." he began again; realised with his words he had blundered. What was worse, was the fact that ironing was something Sybil detested and was guaranteed to put her in a bad mood and she was in one now.

Thump.

" **Responsibilities**?" Sybil almost spat the word. "Really? And just what about your responsibilities to us, to the children, to me? I won't have it, Tom! I tell you! I won't!"

Thump.

With the heat from the range and the steam rising from the copper, her face flushed, Sybil slammed down the iron; stood tightly gripping the edge of the kitchen table, staring out of the window at the bare, black branches of the storm tossed trees in the garden at the rear of their house on Idrone Terrace. Somehow, a tendril of her dark hair had escaped from the tight confines of the headscarf she was wearing. Angrily she brushed it back with her fingers.

"Sybil..." With tears now welling in his eyes, Tom moved towards her. "Love, I don't want to argue. I didn't mean that I ..."

" **Don't**! Will you for once just listen! When you vanished, you have no idea what I went through... those weeks, months, without you. I can't Tom... I won't go through all of that again! Not now. Not ever!"

Mingling with the smell of soap suds, the unmistakable reek of burning filled the air. Sybil sniffed several times, looked about her before glancing down at the table, where she finally located its source. There was a large scorch mark on the back of Tom's freshly laundered shirt.

"Jaysus, will you look at what I've gone and done! Feckin hell!"

At his wife's untroubled use of Irish invective, Tom's eyebrows shot up. He would not take all of the blame – or should that be credit - as most of the choicest words, Sybil herself had learned whilst on duty at the Coombe. He wondered if, by some stroke of magic, his parents-in-law could be transported here from Downton to witness their youngest daughter - the former Lady Sybil Crawley – not only ironing but also swearing like a Dublin fishwife. The image that conjured up was so indescribably funny that it made Tom chuckle and helped defuse the mounting tension.

"Sybil, darlin', that was my favourite shirt!"

"What, **this**? Oh, Tom, really! It's only fit for washing the floor".

She held up the scorched, decidedly threadbare garment for their mutual inspection.

"Well, it is... **now**!" he grumbled good-naturedly. Sybil saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

Her own followed suit.

A moment later, laughter overcame them both and they were in each other's arms, the one apologising to the other.  
"And, if you... think... you... can... do... any... better, do... your... own... bloody... ironing..., Mr. Branson!" Sybil managed to stammer between their deepening, ever lengthening kisses.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, 10th July 1940.**

Since their arrival back here at Downton, all three of the returning musketeers as Mary termed them, along with Tom cast in the role of D'Artagnan by Sybil, continued to make good their recoveries. Under his mother's care, the cuts and bruises which Danny had sustained during the beating he had suffered at the hands of the two privates from the Royal Inniskillin Fusiliers likewise began to heal while darling Tom, never one to lie a bed unless it was for the very good reason of making love to his beautiful wife, now that, as he saw it, he was over the worst of it, was desperate to be up and about.

After an ample cold luncheon, the adult members of the family were all to be found sitting out on the stone flagged terrace of the abbey enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sunshine, among them, much to everyone's delight, Tom Branson. Discharged from hospital but a few days earlier, into the care of his anxious and loving wife, as Sybil tucked the rug around his legs, seated in a wicker chair, Tom was beginning to think he would have been far better off staying down at the Cottage Hospital under the ever watchful eyes of the Matron.

"Sybil, darlin', I'm not an invalid. I managed to walk up and down that blasted aisle several times on Saturday without any problem at all. Is this really necessary?"

"It is," said Sybil without raising her head to meet her husband's blue eyed gaze.

"So, where are the boys?" asked Tom.

"Bobby, Dermot, and Rebecca have all gone sailing, out on the lake in the Skylark. I think they're playing at Swallows and Amazons!" Sybil laughed. "A bit like Papa, with Danny and Robert, when they were boys. Remember?" She smiled across at Mary.

Her sister nodded.

"Yes, I do. The time they built that camp fire out there on the island?"

"And when the boat capsized and they were all flung into the water? The look on your face, Mary, when Papa and the boys trooped in through the front door, soaked to the skin!"

"Yes, well, at his age Papa ought to have known better!"  
"Perhaps". Sybil smiled. "But he did so love going sailing with Danny and Robert".

"Yes, he did. Mama said that afterwards that grey suit of his, the one Papa was wearing at the time, was never the same. Despite Barrow giving it a thorough cleaning she still insisted it always smelt of mud! Not that I'm surprised. As a valet, Barrow was never a patch on Bates. And as a replacement for Carson, well ..." Mary shook her head dismissively.

"Darling Papa".

For a moment there followed a comfortable, companionable silence, with both Mary and Sybil recalling separately to mind some of their own individual memories of their late father.

"And as for Emily, she's upstairs in the day nursery with Nanny," continued Mary who, if the truth was told, up to her eyes, as she saw it, in the preparations for Robert and Saiorse's wedding in just over a week, was enjoying the peace and quiet of the summer's afternoon. "Oh this sunshine is absolutely heavenly". Then, much as she had done, years ago, out on the terrace of the Villa San Callisto in Fiesole, Mary closed her eyes and stretched languidly on the chaise longue. "By the way, where's Simon?"  
"Oh, I expect he's off somewhere, mooching about with Tristan," offered Matthew.

"Who on earth's Tristan?" asked Tom.

"A school pal of Simon's. His father's a solicitor, in York. He's a widower. Tristan's been staying here for the last couple of days, while his father's been away up in London at the Old Bailey. And as for the telephone, why yes, of course, Tom. By all means; if you have to".

"Thanks, Matthew. I'll make the call tomorrow morning then".

"Tom!" Sybil shook her head in disbelief.  
"What?"

"You don't".

"Don't what?"  
"Have to. Darling, as I told you last night, the Independent will manage to soldier on perfectly well without you at the helm; at least for the time being. You know what the doctor said. You have to take things much more easily from now on".

"I shouldn't set much store by him if I were you. I don't for sure," grumbled Tom peevishly. "Why, he can't even be certain it was a heart attack!"

"Just which medical college did you train at, Mr. Branson?"

"Never you mind!"

"I'll have you know, Tom, Dr. Crawford is a very fine doctor indeed".

"Hm!"

Sybil chose not to reply. She knew very well just how much Tom hated being ill; that in all the years she had known him, whenever he had been indisposed, he had always proved the most difficult of patients. Instead, she took out her unspoken worries on the pillow she was holding, plumping it up with an unnecessary vigour before placing it gently behind her seated husband.

"Right, darling. Now sit back".

"Am I done?"  
"Almost. Have you taken your afternoon pill?"

"Yes!"  
"Tom, are you sure?"  
"Yes! Of course I'm sure. Don't fuss me, woman!" Tom glowered.

"Don't you _woman_ me, Tom Branson".

"I can manage".

"No, you can't!"

"Yes I can!"  
"No you can't".  
"Do you treat all your patients like this?"

"Like what?"

"As though they're not even human!"

"Believe me, Tom, I can be a lot worse than this. Either you do as I tell you or it's back down to the Cottage Hospital faster than you can say _for sure_!"

"Sybil, darlin', I've been meaning to ask, tell me somethin', **for sure** ".  
"What?"  
"Do any of your patients ever recover? Or do they decide that in the end it's simply not worth all the trouble and take the easy way out?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing for sure". His eyes sparkling with mischief, Tom grinned.

Raising her eyes, shaking her head, having finished tucking in Tom's blanket, Sybil cast an exasperated look in the direction of both Matthew and Mary; saw her English brother-in-law and sister exchanging amused glances. Both of them knew very well that Tom and Sybil had a wonderful marriage; were like two sides of the same coin, trusted each other implicitly, enjoyed a deeply loving and intensely physical relationship, the testimony of which was there for anyone who cared to see, not only in their four exuberant, delightful children but also in the way they were when around each other in their soft glances and gentle caresses. With this in mind, it was a revealing, even mildly satisfying, insight for both Matthew and Mary to see that, just like any other married couple, Sybil and Tom equally had their moments.

Sybil now trained her nursing sights firmly on Danny and Max.

"What about you two? When it comes to me changing Max's sling and that bandage on your head, are you going to be just as difficult as your Da?"

"I wouldn't dare for sure!" exclaimed Danny with a laugh.

For his part, Max said nothing. In fact, he seemed not even to have heard his Aunt Sybil. A few moments later, while submitting to the practised ministrations of his Ma, Danny grinned at Max sitting beside him on the terrace. Not that his cousin seemed to notice that either. Max was far too busy reading the latest letter he had received from Claire; of which, since they and Uncle Friedrich had returned here to Downton, there had been several. Still, Danny didn't begrudge his Austrian cousin his good fortune; far from it. Claire Barton was a lovely girl.

While his mother re-bandaged his head, Danny set to thinking; wondering what had become of Carmen. Although he had given her his address in Dublin, since that night when they had parted in the mountains in the winter of 1938, he had not heard a word from her. He hoped that she was still alive although he was well aware that the Spanish Civil War had exacted a terrible price upon the population of Spain. As indeed this war with Germany was now doing and also from others he loved. Danny cast a surreptitious glance at his uncle Friedrich who was discussing something with Uncle Matthew.

It was just over three weeks since the sinking of the Lancastria in which, along with thousands of others, Aunt Edith and young Kurt had been drowned. Danny still couldn't believe it. From some of the exploits which she had recounted to them when they were all much younger, it had always been the case that no-one and nothing ever got the better of Aunt Edith. Until now. While, on the surface, Uncle Friedrich appeared to be coping with what had happened, Max had been dreadfully down. And then, just when he was at his lowest ebb, he had received a letter, postmarked from Devon.

"Max?" Sybil's nephew nodded and then submitted patiently to his aunt's ministrations while she replaced his sling.

Sybil smiled.

"There, that should do it. Does your elbow still pain you?"  
"A little. I expect it was all that rowing ... when we were in the lifeboat". Sybil nodded, recalling to mind something of what Max had told them of what had followed after the sinking of the Lancastria. "Yes, well... no need for that here. Hopefully, if you continue to rest it over the next few days, Dr. Crawford thinks there shouldn't be any further problem".

"I do hope not".

"Max, darling, you were very brave. Your mother would have been so very proud of you".

Sybil saw Max look away. Appreciating that at his age Max might not wish to own to tears, she merely squeezed his shoulder; felt his hand enfold her own.

"If ever you want to talk, Max ..."

"I know, Aunt Sybil and I'm very grateful," he said haltingly and ducked his head.

Understanding that for the moment Max needed to be left alone, Sybil walked over to where Mary was reclining on the chaise longue.

* * *

"How's Mama?"

"Bearing up, although to be honest, Sybil, I don't think she will ever really get over it".

"Will any of us?"

"No". Mary shook her head. "Not for a very long time," she said softly.

With the return of both Friedrich and Max to Downton, it became impossible for Mary and Sybil to put off any longer telling their mother the awful news concerning both Edith and little Kurt. By agreement they had done so together, at the Dower House, on the afternoon of the day after Friedrich and Max had arrived from Plymouth. On learning what had happened, Cora had been absolutely appalled; initially disbelieving that all hope was lost. Likewise,Tom was also devastated when he learned what had occurred; Sybil herself breaking the news to him as gently as possible while he was still in the Cottage Hospital but only when she judged it was safe to do so. After all, down the years, Tom had always harboured very warm feelings for Edith. And while Cora loved all of her grandchildren in equal measure, young Kurt, always so happy, so lively, had found a very special place in her heart.

When the adult members of the family heard at first hand from Friedrich and Max as to the full horror of what had befallen those aboard the ill-fated Lancastria, they were horrified. The fact that Friedrich and Max had both survived the disaster, and relatively unscathed too, had been nothing short of a miracle, although it had come at a terrible price; their lives saved only by the sheer press of numbers on the upper deck of the liner serving to shield the two men and others nearby from the full force of the explosion which occurred closest to them.

The family sat in stunned silence as Friedrich told of what had occurred. Of the liner being loaded to overflowing with refugees, of the shortage of lifeboats and rafts, of the pitiful number of boats which had been launched before the liner went down, of the thousands left trapped on board, of those left struggling in the oil soaked waters, of them being machine gunned by the German aircraft.

* * *

A short while later, as they all continued to enjoy the warmth of the summer's afternoon, Barrow came out onto the terrace.

"Yes Barrow, what is it?" asked Matthew laying aside his newspaper.

"A telephone call, Your Lordship". The butler paused. Deliberately so, for while he gave no sign of having done so, at his announcement he had seen the countess of Grantham raise her head. With Master Robert now serving as a pilot in the Royal Air Force, Barrow knew perfectly well that whenever the telephone rang here at the abbey, his mother feared the worst.

"Thank you".

Perversely continuing to savour the moment, all but imperceptibly, Barrow paused again before finally announcing that the telephone call was for Mr. Max.

Hearing the butler say his name, Max looked up.

"For **me**?" he asked.

"Yes, Mr. Max. A Miss Barton …"

"Miss Barton?" echoed Max.

"Yes, sir. The telephone in the …

But before Barrow could finish what he was saying, flushing to the roots of his sandy hair, Max himself was up out of his chair.

"Will you … will you all excuse me?" he asked by which time, not having waited for an answer, Max was half way across the terrace and disappearing through the open doorway into the house; his vanishing faster than a whirling dervish, resulting in a sea of amused faces.

"I was about to explain, Your Lordship, that it will be necessary for Mr. Max to take the call in the Library".

"Not again!" exclaimed Matthew.

Barrow nodded.

"I very much fear so, Your Lordship. I will contact the GPO immediately, from the telephone below stairs; assuming **that** is working".

"Thank you, Barrow".

Ever since the arrival of the boys evacuated here to Downton Abbey from St. Dominic's School in Hastings, with the GPO having installed two additional lines, the telephones in that part of the abbey which remained in occupation by the family seemed to have developed a repeated but intermittent fault the nature of which so far had eluded the engineers from the GPO.

The butler nodded and withdrew himself discretely from the scene.

* * *

"Letters **and** a telephone call!" laughed Tom with a wide grin.

"So, what's she like, this Miss Barton?" asked Mary with a smile.

"Managing!" said Danny swiftly, now provoking laughter all around.

"How terribly unromantic!" exclaimed his mother with a giggle.

"Very pretty too," added Danny with a broad grin.

"And just why is she **managing**?"

"Don't ask, for sure!" Danny shook his head. He had no intention whatsoever of letting on to anyone here assembled, least of all to Ma, that not only had Claire Barton undressed him but that she had also seen him stark naked as well.

"Indeed. A very charming girl," said Friedrich. "My dear Edith would have been so delighted".

For a moment no-one said anything; painfully aware that it was the very first time that Friedrich had spoken of Edith in the past tense.

"I think," said Friedrich, nodding in the direction of the doorway through which his son had disappeared, "the English have a word for it. Smit…" He paused, groping for the word he needed.

"Smitten," suggested Matthew.

"Just so!" nodded Friedrich with a laugh.

* * *

Once back inside the great house, as his made his way below stairs, Barrow sniffed derisively. Today, of all days, decidedly, he was not in the best of moods.

With Emma having left service to go and work in a bloody munitions factory in Leeds that meant that what little remained of the domestic staff here at the abbey, already reduced to what Barrow considered the bare minimum, thanks to His Lordship's penny pinching and continuing drive for economy, was now below the level which the butler deemed to be acceptable. While he knew Her Ladyship was not accepting of the present deplorable situation vis-à-vis the shortage of domestic staff, so far, his own protests to the earl of Grantham had fallen on deaf ears.

All this apart, much to his annoyance, Barrow had recently been forced to supervise several rooms in the west wing of the abbey being stripped of all their furnishings, the paintings and furniture placed in store, in order that, for the foreseeable future, accommodation could be provided for, as the butler saw it, a group of grubby, insolent little schoolboys from down on the south coast. Why on earth they all had to be evacuated here, Barrow could not begin to fathom; although he had to admit that each and every cloud had a silver lining. One of the masters, a Mr. Harris was decidedly good looking and if Barrow was not very much mistaken, possessed of similar appetites to his own. The butler smiled. With that thought in mind, suddenly, the long summer days and, more importantly, the nights took on an altogether rather more attractive hue.

Even so, for all the undoubted charms of Mr. Harris both visible and so far only imagined, now here he was, running around after a pair of bloody penniless refugees. And while the Schönborns, father and son might well be kin by marriage to the Crawleys, in Barrow's opinion not only were they refugees but more to the point, enemy aliens, both of whom should have been interned. Quite how His Lordship had managed to prevent that happening, Barrow did not know. So, perhaps … perhaps if he had a quiet chat with a contact he had in the Military Police. After all, a word in the right ear could work wonders. And he hoped it would. Sergeant Atkins owed him a favour or two, for services rendered in a hotel bedroom in York the previous autumn.

While Barrow could do nothing about the evacuees from the school, that, regrettably, was already a fait accompli, there yet remained the question of a replacement for Emma. So far His Lordship had refused to consider it; had even suggested hiring in help from the village. Barrow had been utterly appalled. That was not the way a house such as this was run. Not that, given His Lordship's middle class antecedents, the present earl of Grantham could be expected to understand. The previous evening, in private, in the privacy of the butler's pantry, after the other staff had gone to bed, over several brandies, mulling over what he considered to be an affront to his personal dignity as the butler of Downton Abbey, Barrow had fumed. So far, he had taken out his annoyance on what yet remained of the domestic staff; had been more than usually peremptory in his dealings with them. And then, when all appeared to be lost, Fortune had smiled on him and pointed the way as to how he might, with care, be able to achieve what he wanted. Obviously the matter would need to be handled delicately and would rely upon the assistance of a third party: Simon Crawley.

* * *

 **Temple of the Four Winds, Downton Abbey estate, 9th July 1940.**

Given his own personal persuasions and proclivities, when it came to matters sexual, the butler had long harboured his suspicions about Master Simon and today, with what he had chanced to witness taking place within the Temple of the Four Winds, he now had the proof he needed.

The Temple of the Four Winds was a folly, a small Greek temple built in the Classical style, paid for and erected in the grounds of the abbey at some distance from the house, by the largesse and munificence of the third earl. Not that the place where it had been erected, in a shady dell was at all windy. For his part, Barrow had often thought the name it bore to be rather ridiculous. These days, the structure was clearly in a parlous state and, with no funds to repair it, most kept well away from the decaying building. Taking a short cut across that part of the estate, Barrow had seen the unexpected sight of Master Simon and his school chum looking about them and then going inside the abandoned building; saw, too, that, as they did so, the two young men linked hands.

A sly smile spread across Barrow's saturnine features and with infinite care, he made his way quietly across the dell to the derelict building. A low window at the rear afforded him with an unrestricted view of what was taking place within. Having satisfied his own curiosity, let alone his own voyeuristic tendencies, unobserved, the butler slunk away whence he had come. What he had just witnessed could well prove useful; affording him with a possible means by which, indirectly, pressure could be brought to bear upon the earl of Grantham and his hitherto uncooperative attitude regarding the appointment of a replacement for Emma Burton.

* * *

 **Somewhere in the Gironde, south western France, 22nd June 1940.**

As the German blitzkrieg continued to punch its way inexorably across both northern and western France, on their desperate flight south from Nantes, while thankfully the ferry across the Loire had been running, for Edith and Kurt their journey so far had proved rather longer, albeit slightly less arduous, than Edith herself had expected. This was largely on account of the fact that, travelling on country roads as far as she could, so as to avoid the press of all manner of refugees, despite time being of the essence, Edith had risked all by taking a rather more circuitous route, doing her best to avoid the larger towns, such as Cholet, Niort and Angoulême, where it was common knowledge that the never-ending flood of those fleeing the German advance had already well nigh exhausted both the patience and the resources of the local population.

Fortunately, with the money which Friedrich had thought to secrete beneath the lining of one of the suitcases - something they had both done once before in the remoter fastnesses of Mesopotamia back in the 1920s - as well as loading the boot with several jerry cans of petrol, in this regard, Edith was rather better provisioned than some of her fellow refugees with funds to buy what few provisions they needed from isolated farms and enough fuel for the remainder of the journey which lay ahead.

From what she had been told by a couple of friendly gendarmes, detachments of the French army around Tours had mounted a spirited defence and then stalled the German advance on Poitiers. However, later that same day had come the rather more disturbing report which she herself had heard broadcast on the radio in one of the village cafés, where they had stopped briefly to buy something to eat, that, apart from those seeking evacuation from the western ports, admitting defeat, thousands of French and Polish soldiers were pouring across the Swiss border and seeking safety in Switzerland.

Of course both Friedrich and she had been aware that the French government had fled to Bordeaux and from what, as she moved south, Edith had learned yesterday, despite like Paris being declared an open city, not only had Bordeaux itself now been bombed by both the Germans and the Italians and its outlet to the sea, the Garonne river, mined but that it was seething with thousands of refugees. Had she intended to try and escape from France by that route, it was obvious that it was effectively closed and no longer an option.

Apart from those who had fled to the south by train, the main roads down here, like elsewhere, were also clogged with refugees some of whom, like those the Schönborns had encountered in Nantes and St. Nazaire, had journeyed from as far away as Paris itself, others from elsewhere in France, refugees in their own country, some even from the Low Countries. Those who had undertaken the journey by motor did so in cars piled high with all manner of personal possessions, often with mattresses and furniture tied to the roofs, and the whole family packed inside. Others had done so on bicycles, many more on foot, and using all manner of conveyances, prams, wheelbarrows, and carts, to move their most precious belongings.

From some of those with whom she chanced to speak, to her utter amazement, Edith found that many did not really know where it was they were heading, apart from being possessed of some misguided, unfounded and, for a while, unshakeable belief that once south of the Loire, there they would be safe.

The fine weather gave a surreal air to the mass exodus which was almost Biblical in its proportions; meant too that, at least initially, there had been an almost a holiday atmosphere to the whole episode, with many refugees staunchly believing that the French army was regrouping, if not for one offensive, then for several. This deluded optimism had soon turned to wretched despair when the fleeing civilians witnessed the utter dejection of the French soldiers they encountered on the roads; while the German bombing and machine gunning of the refugee columns south of the Loire soon put paid to the notion that once across the river they were safe from attack. Not that it had ever been true in the first place and which was another reason why Edith had taken the indirect route that she had.

Now, just after nine o'clock in the morning, before the heat of the summer's day truly began to rise, south of Bordeaux, by the end of a sandy track that stretched off far into the forest, Edith brought the motor to a stand in the dappled, welcome shade of a grove of pine trees. She sighed, wound down the window and heard immediately the all-pervasive, near incessant chirping of the cicadas. Turning round, she saw that Kurt was fast asleep on the back seat. He had still not spoken a word and Edith was beginning to wonder if he would ever speak again; recalled something Sybil had once said to her about a young child whose parents had been killed in a railway accident and having seen it happen had thereafter lost the power to speak. Hysterical paralysis was the term Sybil had used but whether or not the young boy had ever recovered his voice, she hadn't said.

It had been less than a year since Sybil had made mention of the case of the little boy. That had been back in the halcyon days of the summer of 1939, in the garden at La Rosière, when Bobby, Kurt, and young Dermot had been racing round the outside of the château yelling fit to bust their lungs in a rambunctious game of Cowboys and Indians. At the time, she and Sybil had been fighting a losing battle in a vain attempt to suppress the exuberant spirits of their young sons. If then anyone had suggested it, that one day, and in the not too distant future, Kurt would become as silent as a Trappist monk the very notion would have seemed too ridiculous even to contemplate. Now Edith would have given anything to him shout and whoop as he had done on that long gone August day which now seemed so far off as to belong to another world entirely.

Despite the aching sadness within her, Edith smiled. Reaching over, she brushed back Kurt's fair hair out of his eyes. With Friedrich and Max now dead, he was all she had left; her darling little boy. For his sake as well as for her own, she had to remain strong; to believe that somehow all would come right in the end for him. Rest and sleep were what Kurt needed most of all; what she herself desperately needed too. But not just now, as, with the dog beginning to whimper, that would have to wait. So, ever so quietly, so as not to awaken Kurt, Edith opened the door and let the dog out of the motor. Then, catching up the end of the lead, all the while, with backward glances, keeping the car in sight, she set off but a short distance down the track.

Hereabouts, the air was heavy with the scent of both bracken and pine and, even at this early hour, the red bark of the trees already aglow while, the further she walked, as the heat of the sun intensified, the noise from the chirping of the cicadas grew ever more insistent. In this deserted spot, with the sunlight glinting through the trees, it was almost possible to make believe there was no war. Then, when she was about five hundred yards from the motor, Edith stopped and stood stock still; conscious that even here, in this remote, out-of-the-way spot, she was being watched.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey Estate, 11th July 1940.**

Minding his own business, threading a path through the woods on the edge of the estate, on his way back up to the house from the railway station, off the afternoon train from York, he smelt cigarette smoke. Immediately on his guard, Simon stopped and looked warily about him. A moment later and a familiar black clad form slid itself out from the shadows of the abandoned shepherd's hut.

"Barrow! Why, you startled me". Simon breathed an audible sigh of relief.

"Ah, Master Simon! Just the very person. A word with you, if you please".

"About what?" Although he had never liked the butler, Simon smiled affably enough and nodded his head in acknowledgement.

"A somewhat delicate matter," oozed the butler with an oily unctuousness. "Shall we?" With his open hand, he indicated that they should walk. Unsuspecting, Simon did as Barrow suggested. Immediately they were round the corner of the hut and out of sight, grabbing hold of Simon, Barrow thrust him back against the wall.

"What the hell are you doing?" Let go of me this instant! Help!"

Not releasing his grip, Barrow deftly smothered Simon's cry with the palm of his hand; thrust his other hand hard between the boy's legs.

"You listen to me, you dirty little bugger. I know all about you and your friend. Yesterday? Down there, at the temple? I saw what you two were up to".

Simon flushed red and at the same time Barrow saw the naked fear in the boy's eyes.

"Now, I don't suppose His Lordship would be very pleased to find out that his second son is a filthy queer. So, that being the case, you'll be pleased to know that my silence on the matter can be bought but in return I need something from you. Understood?"

When Simon failed to answer, Barrow's grip between the boy's legs tightened. "Is that understood?" With tears of pain and shame trickling down his cheeks, mutely Simon nodded his head.

"Good. Now this is what you are going to do ..."

 **Author's Note:**

GPO - General Post Office.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

A Vale Of Tears

 **Blue Room, East Wing, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, early morning, 12th July 1940.**

This morning dawned both warm and sunny.

As was customary these days, Matthew was up with the lark, had then washed, shaved and dressed and, after an equally early breakfast, accompanied by both Lucius and Trajan, had taken himself off down to the Estate Office, there to begin his daily round of duties.

Now, several hours later, with tears in her eyes, not even having bothered to dress, still in her nightdress and dressing robe, Mary sat on the edge of the bed in the Blue Room in the East Wing with the pages of the closely written letter lying beside her.

Robert had said that he would write; that it was much easier for him to put down on paper what it was he wanted to say, rather than to try and tell her over the telephone with other pilots in his squadron lining up behind him in the passage outside the Officers' Mess, awaiting their turn to make all too brief calls home to their loved ones, to family, and to friends.

Postmarked from Biggin Hill in Kent, the promised letter had duly arrived here at Downton Abbey this very morning while she herself was breakfasting in bed.

Snatches of what Robert had written came back to haunt her now; seared forever into her inner consciousness.

 _My darling Mama,_

 _I am writing to you as I promised I would when last we spoke on the telephone._

 _While I have no idea as to what the future may hold in store for me, I don't fear it. Indeed, I count myself luckier than many of the new pilots since before all of this kicked off I had the good fortune to be properly trained to do the job I am doing now. And, yes, darling Mama, I will do as you asked and take the very greatest care of myself, especially now that I am to be married in a just over a week's time. I am happier than I have ever been, knowing that in the years to come Saiorse will be there beside me, just as you have been for Papa, and now also with the birth of our child to look forward to early in the spring._

 _Darling Mama, I have always loved you and dearest Papa. I am incredibly proud to be your son, realise just how fortunate myself, Simon and the girls are to have the two of you as our parents. Not because you are the earl and countess of Grantham but because of who you are in yourselves. I admire, too, how courageous and resilient you both are, especially you dearest Mama, always prepared to fight for what you believe in most of all - our family._

 _So, do please try not to worry._

 _The other day, while we awaiting the order to scramble - I believe I told you what that means - I found myself remembering that poem that Papa read to Simon and myself when we were boys. Our English master, Mr. Gregory made us learn it by heart at school. Do you remember? I'm sure you do._

 _"If I should die, think only this of me:_

 _That there's some corner of a foreign field_

 _That is for ever England._

 _There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;_

 _A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,_

 _Gave once her flowers to love, her ways to roam._

 _A body of England's breathing English air,_

 _Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home._

 _And think, this heart, all evil shed away,_

 _A pulse in the eternal mind, no less_

 _Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;_

 _Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day,_

 _And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,_

 _In hearts at peace, under an English heaven"._

 _Like many others of my own generation, f_ _or my part, I truly believe in what it is that I am doing; helping to rid the world of the evil that is Nazism. That there are some things worth fighting for: this country, our way of life. Dearest Danny found that to be so ... when he went off to fight in Spain. This war has to be fought, we all have our part to play, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Of course I don't want to die, who does? But I don't fear Death. And, if the very worst should happen, then, darling Mama, it cannot have been helped and I will not have died in vain._

 _God Bless You, Mama,_

 _Your Loving Son,_

 _Robert_

* * *

 **Somewhere in the Gironde, south western France, 22nd June 1940.**

Edith stood still and looked cautiously about her. Here in the depths of the wood, the sense that she was being watched, and by someone not desirous of her welfare, was now more pronounced than ever. There was furtive, stealthy movement in the deep shadows beneath the stand of pine trees and among the thick brake of bracken. Beside her the dog had sensed something too; was now crouching down on its haunches and growling softly.

The shadows sharpened and the morning sun dazzled her eyes, momentarily blinding her when, from somewhere close at hand, a dry branch snapped. Edith spun round; smelt the reek of tobacco and stale sweat. A moment later, as if from nowhere, she felt a hand hard across her mouth; found herself being dragged downwards to the forest floor. Screaming, struggling to break free of her unseen assailant, Edith kicked back hard with both her feet, heard furious barking, followed in turn by a torrent of coarse expletives mouthed in French. Still struggling, she felt her right hand now close on something hard and metallic. A moment later, and a single shot rang out; the very last thing Edith heard, before she herself slipped silently down into unconsciousness.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, evening, 11th July 1940.**

This evening, having been delayed in making her way downstairs to dinner by a recalcitrant ear ring and also by the clasp on her necklace, Mary hurried out onto the upper landing. Honestly, this business of having to dress oneself was not to be borne a moment longer. She would have to speak to Matthew again on the subject, although she realised that tonight might not be the most opportune time to do so.

It was as she came out onto the gallery that it happened.

Mary had been thinking of nothing in particular, then realised suddenly that she had reached the head of the main staircase. Here she now paused; stood looking down into the hall, something which she had done countless times before. Everything looked as it had always done, save for the fact that on account of the blackout the shutters were closed so that the room below her was all but lost in deep shadow.

It was then that Mary heard the sound of an aircraft passing low overhead. Surprised, she glanced up instinctively; saw nothing except the high ceiling of the hall. The sound of the plane faded away almost immediately. Now, as Mary looked down once more into the deserted, silent hall, to her amazement she thought she made out a dim figure standing by the front door and at the very same time, felt unaccountably cold. A moment later and she saw Barrow cross the hall from the head of the stairs leading down to the kitchen. When she looked again towards the front door, there was nothing to be seen. The figure, if it had ever been there at all, had disappeared.

* * *

 **Beckett's Park Hospital, Leeds, Yorkshire, evening 11th July 1940.**

The operation, an amputation, of the left leg below the knee - was over. After Dunkirk, here at Beckett's Park, they had been flooded with wounded, some of the casualties horribly mutilated. Now, in the middle of sterilising the equipment which had been used in the operation, suddenly Saiorse froze; at the same time a raft of freshly sterilised instruments fell from her hands and clattered noisily to the floor.

"Crikey, what's got into you all of a sudden?" asked Janet Warren who, like Saiorse herself, was another student nurse here at the hospital at Beckett's Park

"I don't know for sure. For a moment, I just felt awfully cold; as if ... as if someone had walked over my grave".

"You Irish are all the same!" Janet laughed, joining Saiorse on her knees on the tiled floor.

"What's being Irish got to do with it?" Saiorse asked defensively.

"Now don't you go getting on your high horse with me, Molly Malone! Here, let's get this mess cleared up before Matron comes in here or there'll be hell to pay!"

* * *

 **Library, Downton Ab** **bey, Yorkshire, England, early afternoon, 12th July 1940.**

When, shortly after luncheon, the police had arrived, unannounced, in two motors at the front door of the abbey, Barrow had asked that the officers kindly wait in the hall while he informed His Lordship. At the time, both Matthew and Tom were in the Library. For his part, Matthew was on the point of setting off on a tour of inspection of three of the farms on the eastern side of the estate: Whitestones, East Ridge, and Sandiford. With Tom still indisposed, and with Sybil refusing to allow him to leave the house, this would take Matthew the rest of the day to accomplish since he would have to drive himself and was unlikely to be back much before dinner. For his part, confined to barracks, Tom had been intending to spend the afternoon reading quietly here in the Library.

"All right for some," Matthew had grumbled good naturedly as Tom, having fetched a large volume on the history of Ripon from off one of the shelves, was preparing to settle himself down on the sofa next to the fireplace, when Barrow had entered the room to announce the arrival of the police.

"What the Devil can they want?" asked Matthew, mystified.

Equally surprised, Tom shrugged.

"They didn't say. Shall I show them in, My Lord?" asked Barrow at his most unctuous.

"Yes, I suppose you better had". Matthew glanced at the clock on the mantlepiece. This really was most inconvenient.

Barrow withdrew discretely and then returned almost immediately with the group of officers from the West Riding Constabulary.

* * *

Shown into the Library, Matthew thought the officers to be both extremely officious and over bearing in their manner. When asked for an explanation as to what it was that brought them here, the earl of Grantham was informed curtly to the point of rudeness that the police were here to enquire into the presence of enemy aliens, in the guise of Friedrich von Schönborn and his seventeen year old son Max, who, it was understood, were both staying as guests of the Crawleys at Downton Abbey. Was this the case?

Matthew confirmed that it was.

His Austrian brother-in-law Friedrich von Schönborn and his seventeen year old son Max were indeed residing here at the abbey having been evacuated from the west coast of France some three weeks ago in the course of which the earl's sister-in-law, the former Lady Edith Crawley and her seven year old son, Kurt, had both been drowned in the sinking of the Lancastria. At this particular revelation there had followed an uneasy silence and some shuffling of feet, before the police proceeded further with their enquiries, at the same time refusing to divulge the source of their information.

This reticence immediately roused Matthew's suspicions. After all, no-one outside the immediate family and the remaining handful of servants knew that Friedrich and Max were staying here; which meant that the individual responsible for informing the police of the presence of the Schönborns had to be one of the staff. Here Matthew made a mental note to himself to have Barrow put in hand the necessary enquiries to establish the identity of the culprit once the police had gone. When this had been done, he intended that the individual concerned should be dismissed forthwith.

The inspector, who was doing most of the talking, paused, toying with a George II snuffbox on top of the small table beside him. Was the earl of Grantham aware of the law regarding enemy aliens?

Again Matthew confirmed that he was very well aware of the provisions of the Aliens Restriction Act 1914 as subsequently amended.

The inspector snapped shut the lid of the snuff box.

And was the earl aware that the provisions of the said Act applied to all aliens, including relatives by marriage of the earl and countess of Grantham?

Matthew nodded.

That being the case, the inspector required that the Schönborns, both father and son, be handed over with immediate effect. They would be arrested, taken into custody and conveyed forthwith to the internment camp which had been established for enemy aliens on the other side of the Pennines, over at Warth Mills, close to Bury in Lancashire.

"I see. Warth Mills. Really". Matthew drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk.

Housed in an old, damp, leaking, rat infested, former cotton mill, condemned as unfit for human habitation by the Red Cross, conditions for those unfortunate enough to have been interned at Warth Mills were said to be deplorable. There were no beds, just wooden boards with little or no bedding, many of the two thousand inmates having to sleep on the floor. With just eighteen water taps and one bath tub, there were no toilets either, just some buckets outside in a yard. Food was said to be scarce, what there was largely inedible, and the inmates were denied medicine and medical treatment. Given all of this, it was unlikely that Max would survive there for more than a few days.

"So then, where are they, these two Germans ..." The inspector looked down at the warrant he held. "Sch ..."  
"Schönborn, and they're Austrian not German" offered Tom helpfully.

"Does it make a difference?"  
"It does for sure".

"And just who might you be?"  
"Branson. Tom Branson".

Irish by the sound of him. The inspector grimaced. God, these bloody nobs! Openly harbouring a couple of Nazis and now here was a fucking Shinner!

"My brother-in-law, " added Matthew helpfully. "And I shall pretend I didn't hear that!" Matthew glowered at the inspector who had made what he thought was a quiet aside to one of his constables regarding the thick Irish Mick behind the desk. Evidently not quiet enough.

"As to arresting Herr Schönborn and his son, I'm afraid that won't be possible".

"Not possible? What do you mean _not possible_ " The inspector's voice rose shrilly.

"They're out riding. On the estate. Where exactly, I'm not quite sure".

* * *

 **Rose Garden, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, early afternoon, 12th July 1940.**

Mary and Sybil were sitting quietly together in the rose garden enjoying the afternoon sunshine when Bobby and Dermot came flying up the steps.

"Ma! Ma!"

"What is it? What on earth's the matter?"

"The polees! The polees are here!" yelled Bobby.

"The police? Bobby, darling, are you sure?"

"Yes Ma!"

"The police?" repeated Mary.

"Yes, Aunt Mary".

Sybil and Mary exchanged meaningful glances. Maybe it was with news of Edith and Kurt. Confirmation of the fact that they were ...

"Have they come to arrest Da?" piped young Dermot innocently. Like his brother Bobby, the little boy had been as yet unborn when, in the summer of 1921, Tom had been arrested here at Downton and then incarcerated in the grim prison at Princetown high up on the desolate wastes of Dartmoor down in Devonshire.

"Don't you dare say things like that!" snapped Sybil.

At this, little Dermot now began to cry.

"I'm sorry Ma!" he wailed.

"Come here darling. Hush now, I know you didn't mean anything by what you said. There, there now, it's all forgotten. Better?" Realising she had spoken unduly harshly, smothering him with kisses until he began to giggle, Sybil hugged Dermot tightly to her.

"Yes, Ma," he sobbed brokenly.

The two sisters now rose to their feet. Then, accompanied by both Bobby and a still sniffing Dermot, Sybil leading her youngest by the hand, they all set off briskly back towards the distant abbey.

* * *

 **Library, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, early afternoon, 12th July 1940.**

In fact, as both Matthew and Tom knew well, Friedrich and Max, along with Danny and Simon, were both in the Billiards Room on the far side of the house. When, just before luncheon, Danny had announced that Simon and he were going to play a frame or two of billiards with Max and Uncle Friedrich that afternoon, Tom had looked him up and down and pointedly raised his eyebrows. At that Danny had laughed; said that despite the fact that Max still had his arm in a sling, and Danny had a bandaged hand, that they would both manage somehow. From what Simon, who was no mean player himself, had told Danny earlier, apparently Uncle Friedrich was very good, having played a great deal in the Pilot Officers' Mess at Graz in Austria during the last war.

 _"Simon's playing with me, and Max with his father. So, with a cripple on each side that ought to even things up a bit!" laughed Danny._

 _"Da?"_  
 _"Yes, son?"_  
 _"Is Simon all right? He seemed a bit down in the dumps earlier on"._

 _"As far as I know he is. He's probably worried about his brother. We all are"._

 _Danny nodded his head._

 _"Yes, for sure"._

* * *

Both on and around the Downton Abbey estate, as elsewhere in the county, and indeed much further afield, up in London, in Paris and in Geneva, Matthew Crawley, sixth earl of Grantham, was known to be charming, cultured, intelligent, and urbane. A man who, given both his chosen profession as a lawyer and the time he had spent at the League of Nations, was considered courteous and measured in his dealings with one and all. But now, with the police inspector having divulged what it was that had brought him, a sergeant and several uniformed constables all the way from York to Downton, there occurred what few had ever witnessed.

At first appalled, then horrified, disbelieving the evidence of his own ears, his blue eyes usually so clear now opaque, his lips compressed together in a thin line, Matthew Crawley succumbed to a deadly controlled rage. Standing beside him, shoulder to shoulder, Tom had never seen his English brother-in-law so angry.

Stopping short of questioning the inspector's parentage, which would have been both discourteous and rude, although afterwards Matthew confided in Tom that he had come close to doing just that, the earl of Grantham now proceeded to demolish completely the case against Friedrich and Max with something akin to the precision of a well practised surgeon expertly removing a growth with a scalpel.

Matthew began innocently enough.

"May I ask, inspector, are you yourself fully cognisant with the provisions of the Aliens Restriction Act 1914 as subsequently amended?"

"Yes sir".

"Do you have a copy with you?"  
The inspector flushed; shook his head. He had to admit that he hadn't.

"Then you won't mind if I refresh myself as to the exact wording of its provisions?"  
"No, not at all, sir".

"Thank you. Tom, would you be so good? Second shelf from the top, third volume along from the left".

With a nod toward the bookcase immediately to his left, Matthew indicated to his Irish brother-in-law as to where where the requisite volume was to be found on the library's capacious shelves.

While Tom proceeded slowly to climb the library steps, seeing the inspector resuming toying with the snuff box, Matthew was affability itself. "Yes, it is rather exquisite isn't it? Been in my wife's family for well over two hundred years".

"Very pretty".

Meanwhile, Tom did as he had been asked. Second shelf from the top, third volume along from the left.

"This one?" he called down to Matthew.

"Yes, that's it".

Taking the book from the shelf, having descended the library steps, Tom handed the volume to Matthew. For one brief moment, he looked quizzically at his brother-in-law wondering just what on earth was going on. The volume he had given to Matthew was a leather bound copy of Jane Austen's _Persuasion_.

"Thank you. Now let me see". Matthew flicked slowly through the crisp, white pages. "Section 14, I think. Ah, yes here it is. Yes, I thought so. The provisions of this Act do not apply to those who are members of foreign embassies, consulates, legations and so forth. Inspector, I take it you are aware that Herr Schönborn and his son are accredited to the Swiss embassy in Vienna and both hold Swiss passports?"

The hapless inspector had to admit that he was not aware of this.

"Well, the provisions of that part of the Act are quite clear. Would you wish to satisfy yourself as to the veracity of what I have told you?" Matthew held out the book he himself was holding. For his part, Tom held his breath and waited for the axe to fall.

"No, sir. It would appear that we have been singularly misinformed".

Tom exhaled deeply.

"Indeed". Matthew smiled amiably. "Tom?" The earl of Grantham handed him back the copy of the book he was holding which Tom now replaced as quickly as possible on the shelf from whence he had taken it.

"Of course, I am still at your disposal, inspector. Should you require it, I will have men from off the estate go in search of both my brother-in-law and his son. Obviously that will prevent them from undertaking work essential to the war effort but if that is what you wish ... Nonetheless I should point out that once found if you were then to be unwise enough to arrest them any such detention would be unlawful and would undoubtedly have serious repercussions. Breach of diplomatic immunity and so forth".

The inspector swallowed hard.

"Thank you for your kind offer of assistance, sir. That won't be necessary".

"I'm glad to hear it. Now, what are we going to say about all of this?"  
"Need we say anything, sir?"

Matthew smiled grimly.

"Shall we put all of it down then to an ... unfortunate misunderstanding?"

"Thank you sir".

"One thing more. I don't see why your presence here today, to arrest two individuals who hold diplomatic immunity, should find its way into the British press. After all I myself have no intention of reporting it and I assume neither have you, sleeping dogs and all that, but one never knows with these sort of things. Do you see what I'm driving at?"

The inspector nodded.

"I would be most grateful, sir".  
"Good. Then, we understand each other perfectly. Equally, if this matter were to be reported prominently in a leading newspaper of a neutral country, of say the Republic of Ireland, that would undoubtedly cause considerable embarrassment to the British government. And I'm sure in the present circumstances none of us would want that, least of all you".

"No, not at all, sir, but why should it?"

"Well, this ... thick Irish Mick ... as you called him, just happens to be Deputy Editor of the Irish Independent. Now, maybe if you ask Mr. Branson very politely perhaps he will be able to set your mind at rest by promising that no report of this most unfortunate matter finds its way across the Irish Sea over to Dublin and thereafter into the Irish press. Then again, he may not," said Matthew in a clipped tone.

The inspector glanced nervously across at Tom.

"Sir?"

"I think that can be arranged, for sure!" Tom drawled.

The inspector breathed a sigh of evident relief and nodded his thanks.

Matthew smiled.

"I'm so very pleased to hear it. That being so, I suggest that you and your officers leave this house immediately. And, if any further attempt is made to arrest either Herr Schonborn or his son, be assured that I shall see to it that the County Chief Constable is informed and you'll find yourself back in uniform and pounding the streets in York. Do I make myself clear?" Matthew slammed his fist down hard on his desk.  
"Quite clear, sir".

Matthew jerked abruptly on the bell pull beside him; a moment later Barrow appeared.

"You rang, My Lord?"

"Yes. These gentleman are leaving. Escort them off the premises immediately," snapped Matthew.

"Sir, I would just like to say ..." began the inspector hesitantly.

"Get out and don't ever come back!"

* * *

Tom was most impressed by Matthew's firm handling of the police. He said as much but a short while later, as they both stood together by the window watching the two motors of the West Riding Constabulary disappearing off down the drive.

"Is it true, what you said, about Friedrich and Max, having Swiss passports?"

"True enough. Except for the fact that the passports are somewhere off St. Nazaire, at the bottom of the Atlantic. I'm in the process of obtaining replacements for them from the Swiss Embassy up in London. That's what Friedrich and I were discussing on the terrace the other day".

Tom nodded.

"For sure".

"It was how I managed to help them all leave Austria back in '38. After all, Friedrich had property in Switzerland. He still does. So, with time being of the essence, when my contact at our own embassy proved somewhat dilatory, I made use of certain ... connections I have in Geneva. That Friedrich and Max are accredited to the Swiss Embassy in Vienna, no, they're not. But I doubt very much that our hapless police inspector will bother to try and verify that even if he could. And if he does ..." Matthew shrugged. "It just so happens that I know the County Chief Constable rather well. So, if there should happen to be any further trouble, which I doubt, I'll appeal directly to him".

Tom nodded.

"From what I've heard tell, these internment camps are a feckin disgrace. Even H. G. Wells has spoken out about them".

"Quite so. A sledge hammer to crack a nut! And while some, like Moseley, have rightly been interned, many are Jewish refugees from Europe, who shouldn't be in those camps at all. Public opinion has turned completely against them. I've no doubt that sooner or later they'll all be closed down".

"So I've read. As for those poor bastards on the Arandora Star ..."

"Indeed". Matthew placed his hands together and pursed his lips. "There yet remains the question of who it was who told the police ... about Friedrich and Max".

"Any idea?"  
"I have my suspicions, but for now that will have to wait. I've a couple of farms to inspect and I'm late enough as it is already. Enjoy your book. See you later on, old chap".

And with that, without further ado, Matthew took himself off on his somewhat delayed tour of inspection.

* * *

As they reached the house, Mary and Sybil were in time to see Matthew driving away in the battered old Morris which he used for estate business. Then, while Sybil remained waiting in the hall with the two boys, Mary went immediately in search of Tom. Finding him in the Library, he told her briefly what it was that had transpired; that Matthew would give a full account of it all later when he came back from his visit out to the farms. That both Friedrich and Max were safe, at least for the time being but that until Matthew returned nothing further should be said so as to avoid causing them any unnecessary alarm. In the meantime, if anyone chanced to ask, the police had been here in connection with an escaped POW, on the run from the camp over at Glen Mill near Oldham and who, it was said, had been seen near Thirsk.

Sometime after Mary had gone, with Tom engrossed once more in Bateman's _History of Ripon,_ there came a timid knock at the door of the Library.

"Come in!"

The door opened and Tom saw, with some surprise that his unexpected visitor was none other than his nephew, Simon; saw that the boy looked as white as a sheet.

"Hello, Simon".

"Hello, Uncle Tom. Mama said I might find you in here. May I ... may I ... ask you something?" Simon asked haltingly.

"For sure!" Tom laid aside his book.

Closing the door firmly behind him, Simon walked over to where his uncle was seated where he then stood both motionless and silent.

"What is it?" asked Tom looking up.

A moment later and Simon burst into tears.

* * *

 **Drawing Room** , **Downton Ab** **bey, Yorkshire, England, early evening, 12th July 1940.**

As things turned out, Matthew's visit to the three farms on the eastern edge of the estate was accomplished more swiftly than he would have imagined possible. Now, back here at the abbey, having changed for dinner, he and Tom were in the Drawing Room discussing what had happened earlier; Matthew agreeing wholeheartedly with what Tom had said to Mary regarding the visit from the police.

"Thank you for that good lie. Yes, we'll both of us talk to Friedrich and Max about it all later; but after dinner, eh?"  
"For sure". Tom nodded.

Through the windows could be glimpsed a succession of young boys, all of them clad in PT kit, running round the perimeter of what until recently had been the East Lawn, before heading off down towards the village.

"Did you do have to do that?"

"Of course! Cross country runs were _de rigueur_ at my old school," laughed Matthew.

"How's Mary taken to the new arrivals?"

"As you might imagine; considering it akin to the beginning of the end of everything, tantamount to the Russian Revolution. In fact, to be honest, I'm not at all sure who was most put out by the arrival of the boys from St. Dominic's; Mary or Barrow. The day before they turned up here, Barrow asked me if the family silver in the Dining Room should be locked away below stairs. I had to remind him that as far as I was aware we were expecting a group of young boys from a preparatory school in Hastings, not the Artful Dodger and Fagin's gang from Saffron Hill in Camden!"

Tom laughed.

"Well said!"

"As for Mary, I tried to make her see sense. Told her that by taking in the boys evacuated here from St. Dominic's at least we've been spared having to move out of the abbey".

"Do you think that might still be the case?"  
"Given what's happening, anything is possible but I think we're safe enough for now. Mind you, Mary thought she saw one of the boys out there in the hall last night. I've had Barrow have a discrete word with one of the masters, to make certain the boys know this side of the house is strictly off limits. Barrow was more than happy to oblige".

"Have you heard any more from Robert? I read what was reported in the Daily Telegraph today".

Matthew shook his head.

"No, not since he telephoned here the day before yesterday. As usual, he spoke to Mary first, although from what she told me afterwards, I gather he didn't say very much. He never does; I suppose so as not to alarm her. He told her not to worry and so forth. Apparently he said very much the same to Saiorse as well but I expect you know that already. Anyway, he said that he had written to Mary. His letter arrived here this morning".

Tom nodded.

"After Sybil came upstairs to bed last night, she told me that when Saiorse telephoned here from the hospital in Leeds, she was in floods of tears. Given how they hated each other when they were children, it's passing odd for sure just how much she and Rob love each other and that they're getting married!"

Matthew smiled broadly.

"Love and hate are two sides of the same coin. Anyway, all's fair they say! By the way, when Robert and I spoke he told me again that he believes wholeheartedly in what he's doing and asked me to be sure to tell you that there are some things worth fighting for. Of course I said you wouldn't agree!"  
Tom smiled.

"Maybe. But who am I to judge? If I were in Rob's shoes right now, then perhaps I'd feel the way he does".

Matthew nodded.

"Of course, he tries to be terribly matter-of-fact, about what's happening. Even so, I gather things are not looking too good. Half of the pilots he's with now are just out of flying school and while they're not much younger than he is, apparently, they look up to him, given that he's been in the thick of it from the very outset. He's not getting much sleep; constant sorties, then heading back to base to refuel and rearm before taking off again almost immediately. Near twenty hour days. And, in the last week, two of his closest pals have been killed. The plane of one of them blew up, right in front of him. Having seen men under my command die horribly on the Western Front in the last show, I can well imagine how that must have made him feel".

Tom nodded his head sympathetically.

"It must have been awful for him ... for the both of you".

"He saw another of his chums shot down by a Messerschmitt. Apparently, he managed to bail out over the Channel but his parachute failed to open properly so it's unlikely he made it. There's been no news on him since or of another pilot posted missing from Rob's squadron at the same time, all of whom are now assumed to have been killed. So, understandably, Mary's beside herself with worry. Not that you'd ever know it. But whatever comes, I'm very, very proud of him".

Tom nodded and placed his hand firmly on his friend's shoulder.

"Of course you are. We all are. Believe me, he'll come through this for sure, Matthew. And when next you speak to him, be sure to give Rob my very best".

"Thanks, Tom. I will". Matthew shaded his eyes. "Hallo, what's going on over there? Well, I never ..."

"What is it?".

"Over there. Isn't that Barrow? And who's that with him?" Matthew pointed to where, in the distance, two men were walking back towards the house from the direction of Lower Wood".

"Barrow, for sure. As for the other chap, he looks like one of the masters from the school, although at this distance I can't be certain". Matthew and Tom exchanged knowing glances; Tom grimaced while Matthew's face wrinkled in disgust.

"I can't for the life of me begin to understand how ..."

"Indeed. Matthew, old friend, I need to talk to you".

Matthew nodded.

"When?"  
"No time like the present, if you have the time for sure?"

"Sounds ominous! Of course. What about?"

"Not what; **who** ".

"Who then?"

"Simon," said Tom laconically.

"Simon?"

"Yes. And there's something else that you need to know too".

* * *

 **Somewhere over the English Channel, 11th July 1940.**

They had been cruising at twenty thousand feet for well over an hour when, finally, out to sea, and still some three miles off, they saw the group of German bombers heading directly for the English coast. Indeed, it was with some sense of relief, as by now everybody in the squadron of Hurricanes had begun to think they had been sent out here on a wild goose chase.

"Bandits! Bandits at twelve o'clock!"

"Yes, I see them," replied Rob dispassionately through his intercom; now catching sight of the approaching enemy formation through the veil of drifting cloud. "All right, keep calm everybody, follow me, and keep a sharp look out for the fighters!"

At full throttle, the Hurricanes now climbed a further four thousand feet, directly into the sun, until they found themselves immediately overhead of the enemy formation before then diving swiftly down upon the advancing, unsuspecting flight of German bombers. Pilot Officer Robert Crawley chose his initial target with care; a Heinkel He111. Swooping in behind it, closing fast, with the enemy plane now directly in his sights, Rob opened fire with his machine guns. A moment later and he saw thick black smoke begin billowing from the crippled starboard engine of the Heinkel; watched with satisfaction as the wounded bomber banked heavily to port, and slowly slipped inexorably towards the grey surface of the sea thousands of feet below. About him the sky now became a skein of weaving vapour trails, of tracer fire, and puffs of smoke the size of golf balls as with battle now joined, the British fighters dived again on the German bombers, the pilots of the Heinkels now rapidly breaking formation in a desperate attempt to escape the lethal attention of the Hurricanes.

Having chosen his next target, Rob went after it with a cool deliberation, opening fire immediately the Heinkel came in range. He saw the starboard wing break off and seconds later the bomber exploded in mid air in a huge ball of orange flame. Racing past the site of the explosion, through a pulsing cloud of debris and smoke, Rob glimpsed the mortal course of the wreckage of the shattered bomber as it hurtled down towards the sea. Now clear of the smoke, he looked round for his next target but in so doing failed to see the two Me 109s closing fast on his own tail.

The first he knew of them was when he heard shells ripping into the wooden rear fuselage and tail of the Hurricane, punching holes through the fabric of the skin as if it were made of paper. Wrenching round in his seat, to his horror Rob now saw the two enemy fighters but a moment before a spray of cannon fire ruptured the fuel tank beneath his own starboard wing and setting it on fire; more shells hit the engine, and he felt a sharp pain in his left leg; looking down saw blood pulsing from a bullet wound in his thigh. A minute later, no more, and the cockpit of the Hurricane erupted in both flame and smoke. Given the limited protection afforded him by his flying suit and gloves, Rob knew that to have any chance of survival, he had to get out immediately, or risk not being able to get out at all.

The radio crackled.

"Rob, for Christ's sake! Bail out! Bail out!"

The Hurricane went into free fall, spiralling down, black smoke and flames pouring from the stricken plane. A moment later, there was an enormous explosion. Debris showered skywards and what remained of the Hurricane plunged into the sea.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, evening, 12th July 1940.**

Along with Max, and also Simon who seemed unaccountably quiet, although his father had done all he could to draw him into the general conversation, the adult members of the family were having dinner in the Small Dining Room when suddenly and unexpectedly the butler entered.

"Yes, Barrow, what is it?" Given what he knew now, Matthew could barely bring himself to look at the man. Unaware as yet that anything was amiss, all unsuspecting Barrow merely held out a small silver salver on which there lay a buff coloured envelope.

"An urgent telegram for you, My Lord".

For a moment it was as if time stood still.

Having taken the telegram from off the salver but then waiting until Barrow had left the room before tearing it open, painfully aware that all conversation around the dining table had suddenly ceased, hurriedly scanning the closely typed words, now looking directly at Mary, never for once taking his eyes off her face, in a halting voice Matthew read out aloud the contents:

 **IMMEDIATE EARL OF GRANTHAM DOWNTON ABBEY YORKSHIRE**

 **IMMEDIATE FROM AIR MINISTRY KINGSWAY P4378 12/7/40**

 **REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SON PILOT OFFICER ROBERT JAMES CRAWLEY IS REPORTED TO HAVE LOST HIS LIFE AS A RESULT OF AIR OPERATIONS ON JULY 11TH 1940 STOP THE AIR COUNCIL EXPRESS THEIR PROFOUND SYMPATHY STOP LETTER CONFIRMING THIS TELEGRAM GIVING ALL AVAILABLE DETAILS FOLLOWS STOP**

 **UNDER SECRETARY OF STATE AIR MINISTRY**

 **Author's Note:**

The poem Rob quotes in his letter to his mother is _The Soldier_ by Rupert Brooke (1887-1915) one of the First World War poets.

 _Molly Malone_ is a well known Irish folk song. Set in Dublin, it tells the sad story of a fictitious fishmonger who plied her trade on the streets of Ireland's capital city but who died young of a fever.

The author H. G. Wells (1866-1946) had indeed protested about British government policy, begun in 1940, of interning enemy aliens from Austria, Germany and Italy. Many had lived here for a very long time and, of the new arrivals, all were refugees, many of them Jewish, who had fled to safety in Great Britain to escape persecution by the Nazis, only to then find themselves interned because of their nationality. The conditions in the internment camps were at best basic and in some cases, appalling; those at Warth Mills were as described. The policy was largely discontinued in 1941, and most internees released.

The ship to which Tom refers was a liner, which sailed for Canada early in July 1940. On board were hundreds of German and Italian internees, all of whom were to be settled in Canada for the duration of the war. Some seventy five miles off the north west coast of Ireland, the S. S. Arandora Star was torpedoed and sunk by a German U-Boat, with a terrible loss of life.

The Artful Dodger and the other boys in Fagin's gang all appear in _Oliver Twist_ by Charles Dickens.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Aftermath

 **Library, Downton Abbey, early afternoon, 12th July 1940.**

In the quiet of the Library, now having dried his eyes, Simon sat quietly on the sofa next to Tom, waiting for his uncle to speak. For his part, aghast at what he had heard his nephew recount, of what had happened to him at the hands of the odious Barrow, for the next few moments Tom, too, remained silent, pondering in his mind the best way to proceed. As if to reinforce what he had just said to Simon, by way of reassurance Tom placed one arm comfortingly about the boy's hunched shoulders and hugged him tightly.

"There now, Simon. Don't worry. It'll be all right. I promise".

"Will it, Uncle Tom? Will it?" Simon sounded rather doubtful.  
"For sure, it will! Haven't I said so?"

"But Barrow said I had only until Sunday. That's the day after tomorrow, Uncle Tom! And, if ... if I don't do what he wants, he'll go and tell father, what he saw".

"For sure?"

"Yes!"  
"Well then, at least that gives us a breathing space".

"What if he ..."

"Don't you worry, lad. He won't ever hurt you again. That I promise you, for sure".

"And father? What if Barrow tells him ... what he saw?" Simon sniffed.  
"What's there to tell?"

"What Barrow said he saw ... through the window ... when Tris and I were ... down there … at the folly".

"You mean what he **thought** he saw. Simon, you said your chum was very upset?"  
Simon nodded his head in affirmation of the fact.

"Yes".

"The anniversary of his Ma's death and all? You both wanted somewhere quiet to sit and talk? So you put your arm around him, just as I've done to you. That's all it was. And whatever else Mr. Barrow might think he saw, is all in his own fevered imagination. That's the truth of it. Now, trust me. Let me talk to your Da about it when he returns from his afternoon tour of inspection, eh?"

At his uncle's words, Simon looked up and smiled. Sensing that there was now perhaps a glimmer of hope and that somehow all might yet be well, the boy nodded his head in agreement.

"Yes Uncle Tom".

"And as for this other business ..."

"You mean about Mr. Barrow and that soldier? When Tris and I saw them coming out of the public house on Stonegate?"

"Yes. You're quite certain ... what you overheard that day, was exactly as you've told me?"

"Yes, Uncle Tom. We were close enough to hear what it was they were both saying".

"And you're sure Mr. Barrow definitely mentioned Uncle Friedrich and Max by name?"  
"Yes. He mentioned the ship too. The one they'd been on. The Lancastria. He repeated their surname a couple of times too. The other man, the soldier, he wrote it all down carefully in a notebook. He said to leave it with him and that he would do what needed to be done".

"Did you hear Mr. Barrow make any mention of the police?"

"I'm not sure. I don't think so. Why, does it matter if he did?"  
"Probably not. Do you think there's any chance that Mr. Barrow might have seen either of you?"

"No; it's dark there in the Shambles. Anyway, at the time they were both looking the other way, towards the Minster".

"For sure". Tom nodded.

"It was just so odd. I mean, seeing Mr. Barrow there. Uncle Tom, is all of this somehow important?"

"It very well might be. Yes. In fact, I rather think, that finally, Mr. Barrow may have tripped himself up".

"I very much hope so, Uncle Tom".

"Well, like I said, try not to worry. I'll speak to your Da when he returns, for sure. In the meantime, keep out of Mr. Barrow's way. And if he comes anywhere near you, come and find me at once!"

"I will. Thanks, Uncle Tom".

Simon smiled, stood up, and a moment later he was gone.

Instead of resuming reading his book on the history of Ripon, Tom sat quietly, wondering how best to tell Matthew what it was that he had learned. When, over an hour later, Sybil came into the Library to find out how he was faring, Tom was still considering what on earth he should say to Matthew. Not that he told Sybil anything concerning what it was that had made him so pensive. After all, Simon had spoken to him in confidence and, sometimes, it was, he reflected, for the best if, on occasions, some things were left unsaid.

* * *

Upstairs, alone in his bedroom, Simon stood looking silently out of the window, across the park, over towards the woods and the Temple of the Four Winds.

While he had been truthful, in what he had told his uncle, as to what it was that had happened between him and Tristan at the folly, for all that, Simon had been rather disingenuous. He harboured very fond feelings indeed towards his chum. Not that he could bring himself to tell Uncle Tom that. But Simon knew equally well how it was he felt when he was with Tristan; then it was as if nobody and nothing else mattered. Nor did he mention to his uncle the images that formed in his mind when thinking of Tris, and the pleasant feelings that coursed through his being, when late at night Simon was lying alone in his bed.

* * *

 **Somewhere in the G** **ironde, south western France, 22nd June 1940**.

When Edith recovered consciousness but a short while later, it was to bright sunlight, to birdsong, and to a wet nose nuzzling her face. For a moment, memory failed her and then, the dreadfulness of it all came back to her. At the same time, she was aware, too, and painfully so, of a heavy weight pressing down upon her. Now, drifting back into sharp focus she saw the bulk of the man's body lying across her; a dark haired man, in a soiled French army uniform; that much was immediately self evident. From both the look and the smell of him, he had been living rough; a deserter possibly, perhaps hiding out here in the woods south of Bordeaux. The dog nuzzled her face once more. Dimly recalling the part it had played in helping to throw her would-be assailant off balance, absent-mindedly, affectionately, Edith ruffled the dog's fur.

 **Kurt!**

With no thought whatsoever except for the safety of her young son, using her elbows to do so, Edith struggled hard to sit up on the forest floor. As she did so, it was now that she saw the blood staining the front of her torn dress and, as she fought to extricate herself from beneath the weight of the dead soldier, the gaping hole in his chest. A moment later, and she saw, too, the army revolver, lying in the grass where it had fallen, but a few feet away from them. Free at last of the weight of the dead soldier's body, casting in the grass for the shoe she had lost, having found it, she rammed her foot inside the brogue. Not even bothering to tie the lace, with the dog loping beside her, its lead trailing in the grass, none too steadily, Edith herself ran back down the grass grown track to where the black Renault still stood. On reaching it, one look inside told her all she needed to know.

Unharmed, so thankfully unaware of what happened, there on the leather back seat of the motor, young Kurt was still sleeping soundly.

Recalling to mind the time there had been a massive cave-in of a deep trench at the excavations at Ur out in Iraq back in the late 1920s, to which she had been witness, when she had seen Friedrich buried under a mountain of soil and debris, now, by dint of sheer perseverance, Edith forced herself to do as she had done then and to try and breathe normally. This eventually had the desired effect and, with her laboured breathing at last slowly returning to its usual level, the shock of what had happened, if only for the moment, gradually subsiding, and a ragged semblance of what passed for the customary slowly beginning to return, Edith became practical.

Smoothing down her dishevelled hair, kneeling on the ground, she re-tied the lace of her left shoe and, as she did so, glancing back up the track down whence she had come, to where the soldier's fallen body still lay, considered what she ought to do next. Friedrich had said often that she was someone who could be relied upon to keep her head in a crisis. Of course, that was not strictly true. There had been a time, back before the Flood, when Edith would have reacted just as someone of her status and upbringing had been brought up to do. Hidebound by convention she would have done exactly as people would have expected.

However, the incident at the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin back in the summer of 1919 had changed all of that; had been the start of it. And for which, Edith knew that she had but one person to thank: darling Tom, the only one of her whole family who, even before, in the immediate aftermath of the Great War, she had proceeded to single handed, to carve out a new life for herself as an archaeologist out in the Near East in the 1920s, before she had met and then married Friedrich, had believed in her wholeheartedly and fully appreciated her true worth.

* * *

 **Above the English Channel, 11th July 1940.**

Just before his Hurricane began to spiral completely out of control, the oil blackened windscreen and the thick smoke serving to disorientate him still further, with the heat from fire already becoming unbearable, scorching his flying suit, and with tongues of orange flame licking at his boots, Rob's one and only thought was to get out of the burning aircraft before it became a fiery furnace and then his tomb. As he prepared to bail out fast, in quick succession, doing as he had been trained to do, Rob pulled on the locking pin to release his canvas webbed Sutton harness, freed the connections to his flying helmet, slid back what remained of the bullet scarred, shattered canopy and rolled the plane.

A moment later and he was out, tumbling over, falling at speed through the cold, rushing air, plummeting earth bound; all the while forcing himself to count slowly up to ten, **1-2-3-4** …before pulling hard on the D-ring to release his parachute from the bulky pack strapped to his chest, so as to avoid the possibility of the chute becoming entangled in the wreckage of the burning, falling Hurricane. ... **9-10**! Praying desperately that he was clear and that his parachute would deploy, Rob now gave the D-ring a good firm tug.

* * *

 **Somewhere in the Gironde, south western France, 22nd June 1940**.

Both Friedrich and Tom would have been inordinately proud of her now, as with a steely reserve and a stolid determination, and as before taking the dog with her, Edith set off briskly back up the track towards where the body of the soldier lay on his back among the tall dark pine trees of the silent forest.

As she reached the body, the silence about her seemed almost palpable; the undergrowth full of quiet, stealthy movement. A moment later the bracken suddenly shivered and then parted as a solitary deer leapt from cover, skitted nervously across the track, and then disappeared just as quickly as it had come, away into the dark stand of crowding pines.

For a brief moment, Edith stood looking down dispassionately at the body of her would-be assailant. He lay before her, flat on his back upon the track, staring sightless towards the lofty canopy of the pine trees and the pale blue handkerchief square of sky that lay beyond. What struck Edith most of all was that the soldier was very young; perhaps but a little older than Max had been. What it was that had prompted the young man to do what he had, Edith couldn't begin to fathom. While she had no regrets over what she herself had done, his was yet another needless death in the bloodshed and chaos that was engulfing the country and which, had circumstances been other than they were, would never have arisen in the first place.

While it looked as though the track through the forest was little used, to leave the dead soldier's body lying where it was in the open would only lead to its discovery rather sooner than later and Edith knew that at all costs she must prevent that from happening. Grabbing hold of the soldier's boots, she now began the slow process of pulling the lifeless body off the track, moving it out of the sight of prying eyes and into cover. As things turned out, Edith's task was aided somewhat by the fact that just to the left of the track, the forest floor fell away sharply, down into a small hollow, choked waist high with bracken. Here the trunk and branches of a fallen birch tree, brought down in the winter storms, formed a natural shelter under which to conceal the body; torn fronds of bracken did the rest. The revolver and ammunition pouches Edith took with her.

Once more back at the car, as she clambered into the Renault, the dog scrambled onto the back seat and in so doing awakened young Kurt. He looked questioningly at his mother, smiled a wan smile, but still said not a word. Reaching over, Edith fondled his fair hair.

Then, having settled herself firmly back into the driver's seat, beneath which now lay concealed both the revolver and its ammunition, Edith started up the engine; then drove as fast as she could, south, towards Biarritz, the Spanish frontier, and, hopefully, a measure of sanity.

* * *

 **Drawing Room, Downton Abbey, early evening, 12th July 1940.**

"So, there you have it, Matthew. Granted, it's been a very long time in the coming but I think you'd be the first to agree, for sure, that now you have the opportunity to dispense with Barrow and his services, once and for all".

Matthew ran his fingers through his hair, utterly appalled, as Tom had been earlier, at what he had learned.

"That he should have dared to lay his hands on Simon ... To threaten him like that unless he ... To make a disgusting allegation like that about my own son! Why, if I thought it would do any good, I'd call in the police now and have done with it. But that would mean that, at the very least, Simon would have to be questioned; might even have to appear in court to give evidence. Of course, I had my suspicions, that it was Barrow who tipped off the authorities about Friedrich and Max in the first place. And I've no doubt whatsoever that, if you hadn't found out from Simon what he and his chum overheard there in York, in due course Barrow would have reported back to me that his enquiries into the matter had drawn a complete blank. That he was as mystified as I was how the presence here of Herr Schonborn and his son had come to the attention of the authorities. Even so, I think you have the right of it, old friend. This matter needs dealing with and promptly. But but also discretely. Not of course that Mary will ever countenance the idea of Downton being run without the services of a butler. That would be a step too far. She wasn't at all happy about our resorting to hiring in help from the village. Nor, for that matter, was Barrow".

"Well, it's something she will have to learn to accept. Let Henry assume the role of butler for the time being. Even so, we've discussed this before, you and I. You know, as well as I do, Matthew, perhaps even better, that ever since the last war with Germany, the writing has been on the wall for houses like this. Our late father-in-law realised that, although granted it took him some time to do so. And if, and it's a big if, even if Britain wins this war, here in this neighbourhood, after it's all over, apart from Downton, and then only because of all you've done in the last few years to place and then keep this estate on a secure financial footing, just how many of the others will still be here?"

"One or two".

"Ever the optimist, Matthew! I'd wager none at all".

Matthew grimaced.

"Maybe. Now, as to Barrow, you said you had something in mind?"

Tom nodded.

"Yes. In the circumstances, I think you'll agree that we can't afford to dissemble. So, this is what I suggest we do…"

* * *

 **Small Dining Room, Downton Abbey, late evening 12th July 1940.**

Everyone seated around the dining table was horrified beyond measure by the terrible news concerning what had happened to Robert; their stunned incredulity registered in a sea of disbelieving faces, followed by a moment of complete and utter silence which, eventually, of all people, it fell to Mary to break. Ashen faced, yet somehow still managing to retain her composure, in a show of incredible self control, the countess of Grantham now rose slowly to her feet. The men around the table swiftly followed suit.

"If you will all please excuse me," Mary said; her tone was measured, betraying none of the inner emotion she must obviously have been feeling. A moment later, followed closely by Sybil, she had left the room.

Matthew sat back down heavily in his chair; the telegram fluttered from his grasp onto the polished floor from where Tom reached down and retrieved it.

"It doesn't say for definite that Rob's been killed," said Tom gently, now reading the words of the telegram for himself.

Silently, Matthew shook his head.

"In my experience, Tom, these things are very rarely wrong. Even so, until we have confirmation, unless you disagree, I think it's best we don't tell Saiorse or say anything to the other children; at least for now. While I go up and see Mary, would you keep an eye on Simon? The business of Barrow will have to wait".

Tom nodded.

"Yes, for sure. His eyes full of compassion, Tom laid his hand gently on Matthew's shoulder. "And, if there's anything else I can do ..."

"Thank you".

Tom walked over to where Simon was sitting and laid his hand comfortingly on the boy's shoulder while, stifling a sob, Danny exchanged glances with a visibly shaken Max who, now turning to his own father, shook his head in disbelief. That it should have come down to this; after all the three of them had shared, a friendship which had been forged almost eight years ago, when they had still been boys, on a never-to-be-forgotten night in the Alps.

* * *

It was only when she was upstairs and in the privacy of her bedroom that Mary finally gave way to her emotions but even then not to tears. At least, not yet. Instead, as Sybil closed the bedroom door firmly behind them, she saw her sister crumple to her knees in silence, rocking backwards and forwards on the floor, clutching her arms about her, much as Sybil recalled a woman from Coombe having done years before when suffering a miscarriage.

* * *

Out in the darkened hall, feeling world weary, and every one of his years, at the foot of the main staircase, Matthew paused. With his fist, he choked back a sob that threatened to escape from his throat. No, he had to stay strong. If he started blubbing now, he knew he would never stop.

What on earth could he possibly say that would help ease Mary's pain? While he knew the bond between her and their children had never been the same as it was between Tom and Sybil and all their brood, of their own four children, Robert had been Mary's favourite. Now that in all likelihood, barring some kind of miracle, he was gone, just what was the point of fighting to preserve Downton for future generations of Crawleys to come? There no longer seemed any reason to go on with it. It was like all hobbies, in the end, singularly pointless.

* * *

 **Biarritz, south west France, 23rd June 1940.**

Standing not far from the splendid Hôtel du Palais once the property of the late Empress Eugénie of France, the comparatively modest white walled villa belonging to the Zhdanovs, on the north side of Biarritz, faced the Atlantic Ocean. It was rather a far cry from the vanished splendours of their magnificent palace in St. Petersburg fronting the Neva river, now apparently turned into a school for Soviet Army cadets. As for their estate on the outskirts of Yalta down in the Crimea, that had been looted and burned to the ground, lost to the family, like the palace in St. Petersburg, along with several other properties, in the aftermath of the Russian Revolution.

Having met first in happier times, in Baghdad, at the Tigris Palace Hotel, in the summer of 1928, the Schönborns and the Zhdanovs had been friends for many years. Pyotr Nicolaevitch was a philatelist of international renown and an enthusiastic amateur archaeologist while his wife Olga was an accomplished pianist who had played in the Conservatoire in St. Petersburg. Despite the loss of much of their wealth in the Revolution, while living in reduced circumstances, the Zhdanovs were yet possessed of sufficient means which enabled them to live comfortably enough while in exile here in France; sending their only son, Dimitri, to the Sorbonne to study law, as well as providing for Petya's abiding interest in both stamps and archaeology and for Olga to continue with her music.

Seated in the quiet of the Zhdanovs' Drawing Room, through the open windows, the sound of the waves, breaking on the beach down below the villa, was clearly audible, as Edith explained in a halting voice all that had happened in the days since Friedrich, she, and their two boys had left La Rosière.

The Zhdanovs were sympathy itself, especially after having heard Edith relate what had happened on board the Lancastria to both Friedrich and Max, let alone the attempted assault on her in woods south of Bordeaux, at the hands of a presumed deserter from the French army whom Edith herself had shot dead with the soldier's own revolver. Nonetheless, as for crossing over the border into neutral Spain there now appeared to be an insurmountable problem.

"So there it is my dear Edith. I wish it was otherwise but it can't be helped. Regrettably, since the 22nd, with France having surrendered to Germany, the border with Spain has been closed".

"But there ****must**** be a way for us to get through!"

Petya nodded his head sympathetically.

"I've been giving some thought to that, my dear. Yes, of course. These things can always be … arranged, albeit for a price. And, as it happens, I know someone who may just be in a position to help you. Outside of French jurisprudence, do you remember our Dimitri's other abiding interest, the one he shared with your late father?"

Having been alerted to the arrival of both Edith and Kurt by his parents, but a short while ago Dimitri Pyotrovitch had returned hurriedly by car from the port of St. Jean de Luz, some thirteen or so miles south of Biarritz, where he had friends, and from whence, almost at the eleventh hour the very last evacuations of the remaining Allied troops, mainly Polish, from off French soil, were taking place by sea.

"You mean fly fishing?" Edith glanced at Dimitri; saw him ghost a smile.

"Exactly so".

"But I don't see how that …"  
"Trust me, my dear, you will. But that, I think, will keep until tomorrow. For now, after what you've both been through, what you and Kurt need is a bath, a meal, and a good night's sleep" Petya smiled.

"Come, let me show you to your room," said Olga gently linking arms with Edith. Then, leaving Petya alone with his thoughts, with Dimitri having hoisted a silent young Kurt onto his shoulders, they set off slowly up the staircase to the first floor of the villa.

* * *

 **Above the English Channel, 11th July 1940.**

In the very same instant that Rob realised he had lost both of his flying boots, he could have cheered when he felt the webbing of the parachute pulling taut beneath his armpits and his groin, as, with a reassuring jerk, the silk canopy deployed above him, putting an abrupt brake to his helter-skelter descent towards the sea. Grasping hold of the harness straps of his parachute with both his hands, now, glancing above him, through the drifting cloud of smoke from the Heinkel he had downed earlier, Rob saw the chute continuing to spread out until finally it reached its full extent. Then, like a leaf falling from a tree in autumn, swaying from side to side in the chill air, he began to glide slowly downwards towards the grey surface of the distant sea. As he drifted through the air he had no thought for what was still taking place up there in the skies far above; not for his parents, nor his brother and his sisters. Rob's only thoughts were for Saiorse and their as yet unborn child; recalled brief snatches of a conversation they had shared recently.

* * *

 _"Rob, you have absolutely no idea, what your touch does to me"._

 _He grinned broadly, and reaching up, pulled her down towards him on the rug beside the hearth._

 _"You know, last night, when we were apart, I couldn't get you out of my head!"_

* * *

The surface of the sea was much closer now; coming up fast to meet him and, as it did so, Rob's thoughts focused on ridding himself of his parachute once he hit the water as, if he did not do so, he knew the chute would pull him under. What had been instrumental in saving his life could then just as easily snuff it out in an instant by dragging him downwards to the very bottom of the sea.

* * *

 **The English Channel, 11th July 1940.**

When Rob hit the water, it was stocking feet first, where he sank quickly below the surface of the sea, although thankfully the spreading fabric of the parachute prevented him going down too far. After what seemed an eternity, but which in fact was no more than a few moments, coughing, spluttering, and kicking hard with his good leg, his clothing waterlogged, Rob broke the surface once more and with the cords and harness of the parachute entangled around him,

Fortunately, there was only a slight swell running and, now fumbling with the buckle around his waist, Rob managed to free himself from the harness of his parachute almost immediately; then promptly began inflating his bottle green Mae West life jacket. With this done, floating there on the surface of the open sea, with the only sound being that of the water lapping gently at his chin, never had Rob felt so alone. Had anyone from his squadron seen him bail out? Had they radioed back to base what had happened? So, should he stay where he was or begin swimming for the shore? His present predicament reminded him briefly of the time, years ago, when, as boys, Danny, he and their grandfather had been thrown into the water when the Skylark had capsized on the lake at Downton. Only there, the shore had been close at hand; now it was invisible.

It was then, that, as he looked about him, Rob saw the upper part of rusting mast breaking the surface of the sea and which, obviously, marked the site of a wreck; suggesting to him that when he had been shot down he must have been close to the Goodwin Sands, the ten mile stretch of sandbanks in the English Channel, lying some six miles off the Kentish coast and which for centuries had been the graveyard of all manner of ships. The distance to the mast from where he was now floating did not look that great and it occurred to Rob that here was something which was far more visible from the air than a lone man floating in the water, with nothing to help distinguish him from the grey waters of the sea. So, with this thought uppermost in mind, despite his injured leg, Rob decided to try and swim for it, at least as far as the mast. What would happen thereafter was anybody's guess.

A short while later, although still somewhat longer than he would have thought possible, Rob swam along side the rusting mast. Then, making use of its metal steps, panting hard, he hauled himself up until he was part way out of the water and then took a long moment to catch his breath. Although his watch had stopped the moment he went into the sea, by a rough estimate, Rob thought he must have been in the water for well over an hour.

Resting, half out of the water, the sea lapping around his knees, Rob suddenly thought of the silver brandy flask, a present from his father on his eighteenth birthday, and which he always kept in the top pocket of his tunic in case of emergencies. Fumbling beneath his Mae West, Rob found his top pocket, unbuttoned it, and pulled out the silver flask from within. Unscrewing the top, Rob put the flask to his lips and drank deeply; the warmth from the brandy coursing through him like a liquid balm.

Time passed, quite how long, Rob himself never knew; hours certainly. Despite the constant pain from his injured leg, he was beginning to feel very tired, his breathing now coming in shallow gasps, and to be truthful, all Rob wanted to do was go to sleep.

Away to his left, across the grey expanse of water, unless his eyes were deceiving him, he now saw a large patch of sand glistening in the sunlight. So the English coast must be closer at hand than he had at first thought! But Rob's elation was short lived. For, in that very same instant, he realised that what he believed could not indeed be the case. Saw too, that the sandbank, for that was what he now realised the patch of sand in fact must be, was fast disappearing. Swallowed up inexorably by both the tide and by a thick blanket of sea mist which, at Scarborough, at Whitby, and at other places along the coast of Yorkshire, Rob recalled his father telling him the locals thereabouts called frets. If he was not found, and quickly too, Rob knew that whatever chance he might have had, of being rescued from the sea, would soon be gone.

* * *

 **The English Channel, 11th July 1940.**

In the past half hour or so, Rob had seen the fog thicken still further; a fine skein of mist yet at the same time completely impenetrable, with a salty tang to it, and which swirled eerily about him, shifting like clouds but without ever dispersing. It was almost as if a grey veil had descended, blotting out everything, and distorting what was real and tangible. Then, from somewhere far below him in the water there now came a dull, unearthly thudding; perhaps caused by something aboard the wreck, which had broken loose, and was being moved about by the waters of the incoming tide. Here, marooned on this lonely, fogbound eerie, his clothes sodden, soaked to the skin, Robert began to shiver uncontrollably, while the pain from his injured leg grew steadily worse.

Then, just when he was at his lowest ebb, almost at the limit of his endurance, when he believed all hope of ever being found was gone, Rob heard the slow chugging of an engine and which, as the minutes passed, grew ever louder. Yes! A boat! Thank God! But when no vessel appeared and the noise of the engine, seemed to fade away as if it had never been, if indeed he had ever truly heard it, it was with a sinking heart Rob realised that in his exhausted state not only his eyes but also his ears were capable of being deceived.

So when, a few hundred yards away, he saw, or rather thought he saw, the bows of a fishing trawler breaking through the mist, disbelieving the evidence of his own eyes, thinking he was becoming delirious, must be dreaming, for a moment Rob did nothing. The mist thickened but as it did so, Rob heard English voices; realised that the trawler was indeed real enough but by then it was already too late and she was slipping away from him, disappearing into the fog.

In desperation, fumbling beneath his flying jacket for the side pocket of his tunic, he found what he was looking for; his Webley pistol fastened to the lanyard around his neck. Pulling out the pistol, Rob now fired a quick succession of rapid shots into the grey air. For a few heart stopping moments he thought they had not been heard. Then, once more, as before, he heard voices and the sound of the trawler re-approaching. Several long minutes passed before the trawler, its mast lamps aglow, finally broke through the wall of mist and then proceeded slowly to circle him, moving in a little closer, albeit all the while keeping a safe distance from the site of the wreck.

From somewhere on the deck of the cautiously circling vessel, a disembodied voice now hailed him.

"You English, mate?"

The question sounded faintly ridiculous but in the circumstances, Rob supposed it had to be asked all the same.

"D..do I l...look or s...sound l...like a b...bleedin' J...Jerry?" Rob shouted across, his teeth chattering with the cold.

"We daren't come in any closer, mate. Can you swim over here?"

"I d..d...don't th...th...ink so. B...been s...shot in t...the l...leg!"

"Then stay where you are. We'll come over for you in the lighter".

Even in his woebegone state, with rescue now at hand, Rob permitted himself the briefest of smiles; quite where it was the crew of the trawler imagined he might be going, he couldn't possibly begin to imagine.

"A...all r...right!"

A short while later, Rob heard the sound of oars sculling in the water, then the lighter came along side and a man in a thick Guernsey sweater thrust out a wooden boat hook towards him.

* * *

Aboard the tug, having been stripped of all his wet clothes, made as comfortable as possible, his wounded leg covered by a rudimentary bandage, wrapped warmly in blankets, and given a mug of tea laced with rum, suffering from the effects of exposure, Rob was taken back to Margate Harbour. With the trawler having docked, transferred to an ambulance waiting on the quayside, which took him to the former Royal Sea Bathing Hospital, now being used by the military, once there he underwent an emergency operation to remove the bullet from his thigh.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, near midnight, 14th July 1940.**

Despite taking a strong sedative, still unable to sleep, Mary had spent the greater part of the night downstairs in the Library, quietly leafing through a series of leather bound albums containing photographs of all the children when they were younger. She had thought it might help, to try and recall to mind happier times but, of course, she ought to have known better. It hadn't.

Indeed, quite the reverse.

Now, her eyes red from weeping, just as Mary was crossing the darkened hall on her way back upstairs, the telephone began to ring shrilly. She walked over to the table on which the instrument stood and lifted up the receiver. Who on earth would be telephoning here at this unearthly hour, she couldn't possibly imagine.

"Downton Abbey …," Mary began wearily, her mind befogged with grief, but before she could say anything further, the voice on the other end of the line interrupted her.

"Mama, is that you?"

"Who is this?" Mary asked peremptorily.

For a moment, the line crackled repeatedly, making any further conversation impossible. Then, as if it had never been, just as suddenly, the interference on the line cleared.

"Mama?"  
"Who is this?" repeated Mary.  
"It's Robert".

Mary's piercing cry woke Matthew, who, in his dressing gown and slippers came hurrying out onto the upper landing, followed but a moment or so later by both Sybil and Tom.

"What on earth is it? What's happened?" asked Matthew scurrying down the broad staircase.

As he reached the very last step and hurried across the lamplit, stone flagged hall towards her, Mary turned to him, the flawless, ivory complexion of her beautiful face radiant with obvious relief.

"Matthew! It's Robert! He's alive!"

 **Author's Note:**

Most of the British pilots who bailed out over the English Channel during the Battle of Britain did not survive as, quite incredibly, there was no organised search and rescue force in existence at this time to go and look for them; that came later. Most drowned and their bodies were never recovered. Some, fortunate enough to be rescued by German aircraft looking for their own downed aircrews, were then held as POWs. The lucky few who were saved by trawlers and lifeboats were brought back to England. Equally, many were horribly burned; the conditions in a burning fighter aircraft, where the temperature reached 3,000 degrees in a matter of seconds, do not bear thinking about. While Pilot Officer Robert Crawley is a fictitious character, those young men who did fight in the Battle of Britain were incredibly brave; their sacrifice should never be forgotten.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Arrivals And Departures

 **Downton Railway Station, Yorkshire, England, 19th July 1940.**

And so, just as she herself had done several weeks earlier, here he now was, standing bareheaded in the warm sunshine, on the platform of a railway station, impatiently awaiting the arrival of a train, her train, and which, predictably these days, after all there was a war on, was running late as a result of an air raid; exactly where, when he'd asked him, the elderly, irascible porter hadn't known or was disinclined to say.

Then at last, a whistle sounded.

Max saw the signal arm raise to clear, and a few minutes later the short train drew in briskly alongside the platform. Doors opened and closed; a handful of people got off and several got on. The whistle sounded once again, the train puffed off and disappeared round a curve in the line. Beside him on the platform pigeons cooed softly in a wicker basket while, and with a great deal of noise, and much swearing, the elderly porter manhandled a pair of milk churns, first one and then the other, over towards a small gate beside the station building.

And then, there she was, just as he remembered her, standing on the platform in front of him with her suitcase beside her.

"Hello".

"Hello".

Max smiled and at that, without a moment's hesitation, Claire walked forward into his out stretched, open arms and kissed him full on the mouth.

"I've been thinking about doing that for sometime!" she said, her eyes sparkling, when, finally, they broke apart.

"Me too!" He grinned.

"Well, at least since I got on the train at Wrangaton early this morning anyway!" She laughed, her eyes sparkling with merriment in the bright sunshine.

"So, you came after all. I wasn't quite sure if you would. Not after when you wrote and told me how your father …"  
"Max, darling, never be put off by anything my father may say or do. His bark is a lot worse than his bite".

Max looked quizzically down at her. Despite his late mother having been English, it was an idiom which, as yet, was unfamiliar to him. Seeing his evident lack of comprehension, Claire explained what she meant by it.

"Dad may bluster and shout a lot but for the most part it's all an act".

"Ah!" Max nodded in comprehension. "We say something similar in German too: _Hunde, die bellen,_ _beißen_ _en nicht!"_ Looking about him, on seeing the look of sheer consternation on the faces of several of those others waiting on the platform and who were within earshot, on hearing German openly spoken, Max grinned. He had seen that look once before, in Plymouth, shortly before both he and his father had been arrested.

Claire nodded.

"But that's all there is to it. Most of the time, I can wrap Dad around my little finger. That apart, I think it was your Aunt Mary who managed to set his mind at rest; about me coming up here".

* * *

Not that either Max or Claire were yet aware of it but, if the truth be told, Max's father had also played his own part in convincing Mary to extend the invitation to Claire Barton to come to stay at Downton; partly to repay her kindness to both Friedrich and Max but also because, with Robert and Danny heavily involved in the arrangements for the wedding, Max had been left somewhat to his own devices.

Obviously still very upset by the loss of both his mother and younger brother in the sinking of the Lancastria, given the friendship which had so clearly arisen between both Max and Claire, Friedrich saw the invitation as a way not only to try and cheer Max up but also to extend both his own and his son's heartfelt appreciation and thanks for the kindnesses extended to them by the Bartons while they were recovering down there in Devonshire. Besides which, when the idea of the invitation had first been mooted, Sybil had announced that she was more than a little intrigued to meet the young woman who so obviously had captured Max's heart, and whom Danny himself had described not only as very pretty but also in the same breath as _managing_.

* * *

Claire made to pick up her case from off the platform.

"Here, let me," Max said, reaching down for the battered leather suitcase that constituted her sole piece of luggage.

"If you're quite sure".  
"Of course".  
"How's your arm?"  
"As I told you on the 'phone, no further trouble. None whatsoever. I seem to be having a good run of it at the moment".

Claire smiled; silently aware that this could all so easily change and which, if the truth be told, was one of the reasons why she had also done her best to prevail upon her father to accept the invitation extended to her by the countess of Grantham and let her make the long journey north in wartime, all the way up here to Yorkshire.

"So how's your father?"  
"As well as can be expected in the circumstances. He's with Uncle Matthew and Uncle Tom, down at the Estate Office but he'll be back for luncheon".

Claire nodded; reached forward and touched Max gently on the arm by way of reassurance.

"Is it far?"

"To the Estate Office?"  
"No, silly, to the house?"

"To the house?"

"Well, unless I'm staying somewhere else, then yes, to the house".

"About a mile or so".

"Will you be all right, I mean, walking that far?"  
"I'm not an invalid, Claire. Anyway, there's no need. Look who's here to meet us". And at that, grinning like a Cheshire cat, Danny stepped out of the shadows from beneath the station canopy.

"Ah! The beautiful Miss Barton! Max's guardian angel, to be sure!" laughed Danny, making her a deep mock obeisance.

Claire smiled.

"Hello, Danny". She kissed him lightly on the cheek.

"Hello, Claire. Have a good trip?"

"So-so. Well, you look a great deal better than the last time we met, I must say!"

"I should damned well hope so, for sure!" laughed Danny.

* * *

 **Biarritz, south west France, morning, 25th June 1940.**

By the time Edith and Kurt came downstairs to breakfast the next morning, Petya had been as good as his word and had some news to impart. As they walked into the Dining Room, Petya Nicolaevitch bustled in from his cluttered study where, evidently, he had been on the telephone.

"Ah, there you both are! Did you sleep well?" he asked affably, kissing Edith lightly on both her cheeks while, with a young boy's unconcern, Kurt knelt on the floor beside the open doors leading onto the terrace and fondled the dog's head.

"Yes, thank you".

"Now, since we spoke last night, I have been making some enquiries on your behalf. Discretely, of course. After all, given the present circumstances, in such matters, one can never be too careful ... to see if the person I thought of is able to help you in your hour of need. I am very happy to report that he is ... albeit for a price".

"What price?" asked Edith, nervously.

"My dear, I make it a rule never to discuss such matters before breakfast. It does nothing for one's digestion, least of all my own. Now come and sit down, the both of you. There's fresh coffee and croissants. And for you, young man, there's a bowl of hot chocolate". Kurt grinned, while both his mother's and Petya's eyes met over the boy's head.

"Has he spoken yet?"

Edith shook her head despondently. Just over a week had now passed since the sinking of the Lancastria and in all that time Kurt had said nothing; not one single word.

"I thought that after arriving here last night, seeing us again, he might ..."  
"No, not at all. Not since ... I'm beginning to wonder if he ever ..."  
"Give him time, my dear. It's in God's hands. Be patient and I'm sure all will be well". Petya nodded his head sympathetically.

"I wish I could believe that," said Edith bitterly.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, evening, 14th July 1940**.

It was but a little after dusk when, on rusty hinges, the wooden door to the shepherd's hut squealed open. A moment later and Simon Crawley had clambered cautiously inside the rickety building, the floor creaking ominously beneath his weight while his eyes adjusted themselves to the grey dimness within.

"Ah, Master Crawley, I presume," said a voice from out of the cobwebbed, dusty gloom. "I wasn't at all sure if you would come. Mind you, if you hadn't …"

Lithe, like a cat scenting its prey, Barrow now moved forward into the faint patch light cast by the solitary grimy four pane window high up in one of the wooden walls. For his part Simon said nothing; remained standing exactly where he was, close to the door.

"Well then, what have you to tell me?" asked Barrow. When Simon still said nothing, the butler moved closer. "What's the matter? The cat got your tongue?"

Slowly, Simon shook his head.

"No, er, what I mean is, Barrow …"  
"It's **Mr**. Barrow to you, you filthy little queer".

"I need more time, Mr. Barrow. My father … he won't listen to …"  
"Well, you'll have to try a little harder then, won't you? Because if you don't, I shall be speaking to His Lordship about what I saw at the folly".

"I don't see what else I can …"

"Don't you? Here, perhaps this will help you!" Barrow punched Simon hard in his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him, causing the boy to double up and fall to the floor. "And if it doesn't, maybe this will serve as a timely reminder!"

Barrow aimed a savage kick between Simon's legs but his foot never reached its intended target as at that very moment the door to the hut was wrenched open and Barrow felt a strong pair of hands grab him forcefully by the shoulders, pulling him backwards outside into the woods where he landed hard on his back; his fall broken by a dry bank of last year's leaves. Momentarily winded, for a second or so, Barrow lay where he was. Then recovering himself, he made to get up; found himself instead held down by the man now seated astride his chest.

"Get off me, you bastard!" yelled Barrow, realising who it was sitting astride him.

"I don't think so, for sure," said Tom. "Now, **Mr.** Barrow, in your own words, here's what you are going to do ..."

* * *

 **Biarritz, south west France, evening, 25th June 1940.**

"Edith, it's no earthly use trying to convince them to leave! Both Papa and Mama are determined to stay. And, according to what I've heard down there in the town, the Germans will be here by tomorrow at the very latest. Granted it's not that far to the border but given the state of the roads, what with all the refugees, let alone the circuitous route we will have to take to where we are meeting Tomás, we have to leave now". Dimitri jabbed his forefinger towards where, in the darkness, its lights dimmed and with its motor already running, the black Citroën Traction Avant was now standing.

"Yes, of course". Edith nodded her head in complete understanding.

Despite the fact that the Germans were now fast closing in on Biarritz, the Zhdanovs were determined to stay on. Equally, Edith and Kurt had no other option but to leave, and quickly. To delay a moment longer was to run the risk of arrest and internment or perhaps something far worse. So the time had now come to say goodbye. Over the past few days Edith thought that there had been a lifetime of goodbyes. Now, holding Kurt firmly by the hand, disconsolately, she turned back to where both Petya and Olga still stood together, arm in arm, on the front steps of the villa.

"Won't you even consider it?"  
"And just where would we go?"

"Why, with us, over the border to Spain, then to Portugal. From there you could sail to America, to England".

Petya shook his head.

"Edith, darling, we had to leave Russia in 1919, just before the Bolsheviks overran the Crimea. Like many of our fellow Russian exiles, we've lived in Biarritz ever since. What with all the writers, the poets and philosophers, the balls, the lectures, the ballet and the concerts, it almost feels like home. Why, there's even an Orthodox church, on the Rue de Russie. The name says it all".

"Feels like home," echoed Edith, sparing a momentary thought for the vanished splendours both of Rosenberg and of la Rosière. "Yes, I can well understand that".

Petya smiled sadly.

"I said _almost_. Almost, but not quite; it's not the same and never will be. One day, God willing, I should like to truly go home; to Russia. But until that day dawns we've made a new life for ourselves here. And, besides, over the last twenty years, France has been very good to us. So, the time for running away is over".

Edith nodded.

"Well, if you're sure … Then thank you, for everything. I owe you a very great deal. Both of you".

Petya shook his head again. Now embracing her, he kissed Edith lightly on both her cheeks, and then stood back.

"My dear Edith, you owe us nothing".

"What are friends for?" asked Olga, likewise smiling and hugging Edith tightly, while Petya ruffled Kurt's fair hair.

"Are you quite sure about taking the dog?" Petya nodded to where Kurt sat on the steps with his arms tightly around the Labrador's neck.

Edith smiled.

"You mean Hope?"

"Hope?"

"Yes. That's what I've named him". Edith lowered her voice. "At least until we reach the border. Over the last few days, Kurt's become very much attached to him. After all, he's lost so much. I just hadn't the heart to deny him".

"I can see why".

"But will you really truly be all right?"  
"It's in God's hands," Olga said, hurriedly crossing herself. "But yes, I think so. After all, the Germans can't surely be worse than the Bolsheviki".

"Well then, let's all promise to meet again, in happier times, say, at the Hôtel du Palais, for cocktails and dinner, when the war is over".

Then the three of them embraced for one last time.

"When the war is over," echoed Edith sadly from the back seat of the motor as the Citroën purred away from the house.

As they turned the corner, behind them in the darkness, the lights of the villa went out; while away to the east there came the unmistakeable sound of gunfire.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey,Yorkshire, morning, 15th July 1940.**

Deep in the woods, close to the Temple of the Four Winds, Thomas Barrow put the pistol to his head and pulled the trigger. Startled by the sound of the shot, cawing raucously a murder of crows flew up from the elm trees. Later that afternoon, with the eyes pecked out and the face rendered almost unrecognisable by the voracious feasting of the crows, the butler's body was found by a passing gamekeeper.

From that day forward, but more especially after night had fallen, even if it meant them making a detour of more than a mile, Downton locals, both those who had a right to be there, as well as those who did not, avoided the spot where the body had been found like the plague. So it was that by degrees what up until this sad occurrence had been but a nameless copse assumed thereafter the sobriquet of Butler's Wood.

* * *

 **St. Jean de Luz, French side of the Pyrenees, 26th June 1940.**

After their arrival in St. Jean de Luz the previous night, the three of them had spent the whole day here in a shabby little flat situated on a quiet street, close to the railway station, with the shutters closed and making as little noise as possible. Dimitri had slipped out a couple of times to fetch them all something to eat and drink and it now fell to him also to introduce the both of them to Tomás; a young shepherd, a Basque, who hailed from the Spanish side of the border, with blue eyes and a ready smile, sporting an unruly mass of curly dark hair, and wearing a blue beret and a thick sheepskin lined jacket.

In happier times, as Petya had explained, when they were still at the villa in Biarritz, it was Tomás who had taken Dimitri fly fishing in the rivers in the remote reaches of the western Pyrenees and it was he who would now be their guide through the mountains, and who also, if all went according to plan, would thereafter see them safely over the border into Spain. From there he would escort them to San Sebastian on the north coast where passage had been arranged for them on board a steamer bound for Dublin. From there, they should be able to find a ship prepared to take them across the Irish Sea, and to safety in England.

Seated at the bare wooden table, over a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread, with Dimitri translating for him, Tomás now explained that while the journey would be taxing, especially for young Kurt, it was by no means impossible; that they at least had the advantage of attempting the crossing in the summer when there was less snow. Besides which, the paths by which he intended to try and take them across the border into neutral Spain climbed nowhere near as high as others elsewhere in the mountains. Nonetheless, with Kurt and the dog, from which the young boy refused to be parted even for an instant, Tomás was at pains to warn Edith that the journey would take them somewhat longer than he had envisaged. They would, he said, find food and shelter at farmhouses high in the mountains, where they would all be safe, assured of both something to eat and somewhere warm to sleep. And while they slept, their hosts would keep a sharp look out for the Spanish border patrols.

So it was, with supper now over, that a short while later, at sunset, following a tearful farewell with Dimitri, who was understandably anxious to return post haste to Biarritz, with Tomás leading the way, Edith, Kurt and the dog set off on foot through the darkening, deserted back streets of the little town, bound for the foothills of the Pyrenees. As things turned out, it was not a moment too soon.

The following afternoon, the German army rolled into St. Jean de Luz.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, evening, 19th July 1940.**

"It's highly improper," said Mary flatly, laying aside her copy of _The Lady_.

Matthew sighed.

"For God's sake, Mary, in case you've forgotten, this is 1940. Queen Victoria's been dead for nigh on fifty years".

"Forty," said Mary stone faced.

"Pardon?" Matthew took off his reading glasses. He laid aside his own book and glanced over at his wife; saw that she was thinking and knowing Mary as he did, now wisely, he held his peace, at least for the moment.

"Thirty nine years, to be precise".

"Eh?"

"Queen Victoria died in 1901 and, as you so kindly just pointed out, this is 1940".

"Well, with the boys from St. Dominic's occupying the West Wing, it simply can't be helped".

"And who's fault is that, may I ask?"  
"Oh, not that old chestnut again. Mary, you know perfectly well that it was either a case of us providing accommodation for the boys from St. Dominic's or else moving out of this house altogether and the army moving in. As for Miss Barton, the young girl has to sleep somewhere. What did you have in mind? That she stayed with your mother over at the Dower House?"

"Not at all".

"Well, then ..."  
"Only I promised her father that I would see that she came to no harm".  
"No harm? What are you expecting? Young Max to creep along the landing in the middle of the night and ravish her?"

"Don't be vulgar, Matthew! It's so terribly middle class. No, of course not. Putting aside this awful business of Barrow, you seem to be forgetting that among what now laughingly passes for our domestic staff, I have several housemaids and for whom, in the absence of a housekeeper and now a butler, I am entirely responsible. Young girls, who are at an impressionable age. And given the fact that after saying they both wanted it to be a quiet affair, now that Robert has asked some of his friends from the Air Force to ..."  
"Darling, they're only coming to the reception, not to the church. And, afterwards, they'll be staying in the village at the Grantham Arms. Apparently old Newbold's quite buoyed at the prospect. All the rooms down there are taken". Matthew chuckled.

"Well bully for him!" snapped Mary and promptly turned out the light. A moment later and the light snapped back on. Mary sat bolt upright in bed.

"Are you quite certain that you've told me everything there is to tell about Barrow? To resign so as to take care of an elderly relative, a cousin I think you said, in Scarborough, is one thing but then to go and do what he did. Why it makes no sense. None whatsoever".  
"No, I grant you, it doesn't. Scarborough? Yes, I think so. Or was it Skegness? To be frank, I'm not entirely sure. It might even have been Shepton Mallet. Yes, everything. Whatever makes you think otherwise?"

"Well for one thing, the looks you and Tom were giving each other when the subject came up again tonight during dinner".

"Really?"  
"Yes, really. But no matter. If there **is** anything more to tell, I expect that in the fullness of time you'll let me know whatever it is. I must say though, I thought Henry did a sterling job this evening of holding the fort".

"Indeed he did. Now may we please ..."  
"Matthew! What was that?" hissed Mary.

"What was what?" he asked wearily.  
"I distinctly heard someone moving along the passage".

"Mary, darling, you're imagining things. Go to sleep". Matthew pulled his pillow over his head. A moment later and Mary pulled the pillow aside.

"No, I'm not. Matthew! Get up!"

Tousle haired, donning his silk dressing gown and slippers, Matthew shuffled unwillingly to the door. Opening it, he glanced left and then right out into the darkened passage, then turned back to his wife, scratched his jaw, and yawned.

"Mary, there's no-one here. Satisfied?"  
"Are you quite sure?"  
"Perfectly. Now, may I please come back to bed and get some sleep? In case you've forgotten, tomorrow is our son's wedding day".

"How on earth could I ever forget that? Our son, the next earl of Grantham, marrying the chauffeur's daughter. Dear God!"

"Mary ..."  
"Yes, Matthew".

"Go to sleep!"

In the darkness, despite what he had just said, with his hands linked together behind his head, lost in thought, Matthew lay awake for some considerable time.

The Coroner's Inquest into Barrow's death was now set for the following week. Tom considered it would be nothing more than a formality; said that when the butler's letter of resignation was produced to the Coroner, containing as it did, a clear statement on Barrow's part as to just how unhappy he was by the reduction in the number of domestic staff at the abbey, all the changes wrought by the war, in particular the curtailment of the social scene, let alone the presence here at the house of the evacuees in the guise of the boys from St. Dominic's, that a verdict of suicide, while the balance of his mind was disturbed, was the only possible outcome.

As for Barrow leaving Downton to look after an elderly relative, that had been Matthew's own idea and which he had made mention of for the very first time this evening at dinner. Now that he had time to reflect, Matthew wished he had thought better of it. After all, if that was indeed true, it made no sense for Barrow to have then blown his brains out in what Matthew heard was already being referred to as Butler's Wood. No wonder Tom had looked at him askance.

So, despite seeing the sense in what Tom had said, that all would still be well, for his part, with his own experience of the law, Matthew himself was not entirely convinced, and it was some time before, finally, he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Softly closing the door behind her, Claire slipped inside the bedroom. Glancing across the room, she saw Max sitting at the desk, barefoot, wearing nothing more than a pair of pyjama bottoms.

He half turned on his chair.

"I thought ... I hoped that you might come," he said softly.

In a few swift steps, Claire closed the distance that separated them and came to stand beside him.

"Max, I ..."

"Hush jetzt, mein liebling," he said softly, his lips eagerly seeking hers, as he drew her gently down into his arms.

* * *

 **Somewhere high in the Pyrenees, night, 27th June 1940.**

Having crossed the bridge at Ciboure, their journey to the Spanish border took them several long, wearisome hours. That first night in the mountains they spent at an isolated farm where, up in the heavily beamed attic, along with a massive wooden cider press, among farm tools, sacks of apples, of corn, and of wheat, the air heady with the scent of apple, of hay and of straw, snuggled tightly together, Edith and Kurt shared a bed.

The following day, shortly after dusk, with Tomás and Edith now sporting roughly fashioned walking sticks, and with Hope trotting beside Kurt, they set off along tracks which grew ever narrower and steeper, and which led them on, stumbling and falling, through a dense cover of pine trees, up into the misty, snow capped mountains, sometimes gasping for breath in the thinning air as they climbed over over rocks and boulders, as well as fording several fast rushing streams so as to avoid their scent being picked up by the tenacious search dogs of the Guardia Civil, climbed higher still, from where the twinkling lights of several towns could now be glimpsed across the yet distant border. After what seemed an age, from the safety of the now thinning trees, carrying a well nigh exhausted young Kurt on his back, the shepherd pointed excitedly with his walking stick.

"San Sebastian. España. Tomorrow," he said simply.

Wearily Edith nodded her head.

So near yet so far.

Just before the very last of the light vanished, sinking down on a rock and looking about her, all Edith could see were steep, snow covered mountains and deep, silent ravines. Somehow sensing her despondency, Tomás smiled; in broken English he tried to explain to her that they had done very well; had completed the most dangerous part of the journey, having almost reached the east bank of the Bidassoa river, down from the isolated Col des Poiriers, a spot where several well used mountain paths came together and therefore, a place much frequented by Spanish border patrols.

Up here in the mountains, not only was the air much thinner but it was much colder too; even more so now that a chill, star-lit night had fallen. For her part, Edith was very glad that she had taken the advice of Tomás and dressed both Kurt and herself accordingly, including wearing a stout pair of shoes; the brogues she had chosen proving ideal. Holding Kurt tightly by the hand, with Hope padding softly beside them, following closely behind the shepherd, having left the thick belt of pine trees, they set off once again, moving cautiously, zigzagging their way down a loose bank of scree where one false step would undoubtedly prove disastrous.

After more than well over an hour, they at last reached the bottom and found themselves on a narrow path which, half a mile or so further on, brought them to the rope footbridge over the river of which Tomás had spoken earlier. They were now in sight of their goal for, if they managed to make it across the bridge unseen, they would have reached Spanish soil. So near yet so far. Then the moon drifted out from behind a bank of deep cloud; its wan silvery light revealing the true nature of the predicament which they all now faced.

The flimsy bridge spanned a deep gorge through which, a hundred feet below them, yet clearly audible, in a foaming torrent, roared the icy waters of the Bidassoa river. The bridge had thick ropes, top and bottom, the base made of wooden slats, some of which were broken and some missing. Swaying back and forth in the wind, the rickety bridge was all that stood between them and freedom. That, and at the end of the bridge, a Spanish customs post, manned by two guards.

* * *

 **Dower House, Downton, Yorkshire, England, 20th July 1940.**

The day of Robert and Saiorse's wedding dawned both hot and sunny.

Mindful of the long-standing tradition that the groom must not see the bride the night before the wedding, at their grandmother's invitation, after a convivial couple of pints at the Grantham Arms in the village, both Robert and Danny had spent the previous night at the Dower House.

This morning, with their grandmother keeping to her bedroom, having breakfasted together in the Dining Room, now back upstairs, having washed, shaved and changed, the two men were almost ready to leave for the church.

"Are you absolutely sure about this, Rob?" asked Danny, standing behind his best friend, adjusting his own cravate, while at the same time observing the smart, uniformed reflection of his cousin and soon-to-be brother-in-law in the full length mirror they were both sharing.

"Quite sure! I'm not a bloody cripple, Dan. Of course, I may well pay for it later but I have no intention whatsoever of walking down the aisle at my wedding with the aid of a damned walking stick!" So saying, Robert nonchalantly tossed aside the stick which he had been given but a matter of days ago by the hospital in Margate on his discharge.

"Does it give you much gyp?"

"What, the blasted leg? Yes, some. Quite a bit in fact. At the hospital they told me that, given time, I should get the full use of it back. Just as well really. I don't think Saiorse would much like the idea of being married to a cripple!" Rob chuckled.

"I don't doubt that for a minute!" laughed Danny.

"Mind you, compared to some of the poor sods I saw in the ward I was on, badly burned, missing an arm or a leg, I know I got off pretty lightly".

Danny nodded his head sympathetically.

"From what you told me, I can well imagine".

A moment's uncomfortable silence ensued, with the two of them reflecting sombrely, independently of each other that, after Rob had been shot down over the English Channel and had been posted missing, had things turned out differently to how they had, as indeed could so easily have been the case, that there would have been no wedding here today at Downton and Saiorse would now be wearing black instead of white.

"Anyway, who'd have ever thought it, eh? You and Saiorse?" Danny asked, digging Rob in the ribs, and instantly serving to lighten the mood.  
Rob laughed.

"Agreed!"  
"Well, old man, are you ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be!"

A short while later, with both of them having said their good mornings to their grandmother, who having complimented the two of them on how smart they both looked, promising to see them both later, then stood at the front door of the Dower House to see them go, Robert and Danny set off in the motor bound for the parish church.

* * *

 **Bidassoa river, Pyrenees, early morning, 28th June 1940.**

It was just after midnight when the moment of truth came. Deciding that the two guards must now be asleep, having made a makeshift muzzle for Hope, Tomás made it clear that it was now or never, and, in the darkness, crept forward onto the damp slats of the swaying bridge.

Gripping the ropes with both his hands, having used the bridge before, he was over it in seconds. A moment later, Hope went after him, trotting contentedly across the flimsy structure, seemingly unconcerned, looking for all the world as if the dog was going for nothing more than a Sunday walk in a public park. Kneeling down in the darkness, from the other side of the bridge, Tomás indicated to Edith that she should let Kurt go next. Clearly frightened, Kurt turned to his mother, mouthed something wordlessly at her. What it was, Edith never knew, for just at that very moment, a light came on in the customs post, the door to it opened, and one of the guards stepped outside.

* * *

 **St. Mary's Church, Downton, Yorkshire, England, 20th July 1940.**

Notwithstanding what he had said to Matthew but a matter of a few weeks ago, about all the fighting and squabbling there had been between Robert and Saiorse when they were children, all things considered, Tom thought that there was a feeling of inevitability about today's wedding. It was almost … almost as if it had been ordained; that as a consequence both Robert Crawley, or to give him his correct title, Viscount Ripon of Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, and Miss Saiorse Josephine Branson of Blackrock, Dublin, Éire, had been husband and wife elect, had been marching down the aisle for several years, and that today's proceedings were merely a public recognition of what was indeed private fact. Now, standing here at the west end of the church, as he looked at his daughter on her wedding day, Tom felt his eyes mist with pride.

"Darlin', yous look a picture to be sure!"

"Give over, Da!"

"Are yous ready?"

"For sure, Da".

"For better and for worse?"

His daughter smiled and nodded her head.

"Yes, of course!"

"Nervous?"  
"No, not at all".

"Well then, darlin', here we go for sure".

So saying, smiling broadly, Tom now offered Saiorse his arm.

And, as the trumpet voluntary struck up, the notes ringing out, soaring up to echo among the beams and rafters of the high roof of the nave, from where they were now standing just inside the west door of St. Mary's Church, at a sedate pace Tom and Saiorse began their walk down the aisle, towards where Robert, he in the battle dress uniform of a Pilot Officer in the Royal Air Force, and Danny, in a black morning coat, dove grey waistcoat and grey stripe trousers, both stood waiting.

* * *

 **Bidassoa river, Pyrenees, early morning, 28th June 1940.**

In the darkness, Edith hurriedly pulled Kurt to her, while on the opposite bank, Tomás froze as but a few feet from where he was crouching, the guard relieved himself into the grass. A moment later, the man having disappeared back inside the building, slamming the door behind him, the light in the customs post went out. Tomás motioned hurriedly to Edith that they should try again but when she explained what he had to do, Kurt shook his head, refusing steadfastly to cross the bridge without her.

"Na gut, mein Schatz, wir gehen zusammen," she said softly. Then, high above the roaring, surging waters of the river, both of them grasping hold of the thick ropes just as the shepherd had done but a short while before, mother and son together now stepped cautiously out onto the rickety, swaying bridge.

With Tomás all the while beckoning to them encouragingly from out of the darkness on the other side of the river, with Kurt in front and Edith following close behind, the two of them began to inch their way forward, step by step, plank by plank. Over a hundred feet below them, in the inky blackness of the night, the river, which was in spate, frothed and boiled, a veritable cauldron of seething water.

Then, when they were more than halfway across, and within sight of safety, suddenly, it happened.

 **Author's Note:**

For Russian emigrés living in Biarritz, the years between the end of the Russian Civil War and the outbreak of World War II were exciting with balls and lectures, along with performances by Sergei Diaghelev's ballet company and concerts given by the pianist Arthur Rubinstein. The famous Russian actor and filmmaker Ivan Moszhukhin produced his films here. As for the Russian church, it still stands on the Rue de Russie.

Within the ranks of the English aristocracy, as the eldest son of an earl, Robert Crawley would have had his own title, assuming that of his father when, in due course, he inherited the earldom of Grantham.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Wedding Day Part I

 **Church of St. Mary the Virgin, Downton, 11.00am, 20th July 1940.**

Now, with Danny by his side, as Robert stood before the arch which formed the entrance to the chancel, awaiting the arrival of both Saiorse and her father turning his head and catching sight of his mother, he found his mind drifting back to his homecoming here to Downton several days earlier, after he had been shot down over the channel and then believed killed. Thank God all that Saiorse knew about it, at least for now, was what he had chosen so far to tell her; that he had been forced to bail out of his 'plane and in so doing had injured his left leg, albeit not seriously.

The welcome Robert had received from his overjoyed parents had been ecstatic, with his father shaking his hand repeatedly and clapping him on the shoulder. Even his aristocratic, decorous Mama, always so punctilious in her observance of the proprieties, with him having clambered with obvious difficulty from out of the motor which had brought him up to the abbey from the railway station, in a rare public display of emotion, before assembled members of both family and staff, had kissed him and hugged him to her in a tight embrace.

Given the wound to his leg, it had been touch and go whether Robert would make it back here to Downton in time for the wedding or whether, as had seemed rather more likely, the ceremony would have to be put off until a later date. However, not for nothing was Robert a Crawley and he was determined that by hook or by crook he would walk down the aisle with Saiorse as his bride on the appointed day. Courage nearly always wins through and that Robert was here now, standing before the chancel arch, awaiting Saiorse on the duly appointed day, was proof enough of that.

"What is it?" hissed Robert as beside him Danny had now begun a thorough search of his own pockets; jacket, waistcoat and trousers.

"The ring!" whispered Danny. "I can't find it".

"No, of course you can't! Pull the other one!" chuckled Robert.

"I'm not joking; it's gone!"

" **What**?"

"I'm serious. I put it in my waistcoat pocket and now it's gone!"

A series of sniggers came from behind him. Danny turned, saw Bobby and Dermot both desperately trying to keep their faces straight.

"Yous little bastards! Which of yous got it? Give it back!"  
"Give what back?" asked Bobby assuming an air of injured innocence. Sitting beside him, Dermot would undoubtedly have done the same had he been aware of what the concept entailed but, as he wasn't, instead, he just stuck out his tongue.

"Yous know very well what! The ring, unless yous want me over there and tanning your blasted hides!"

A moment later first Dermot, and then Bobby, felt a stinging clip to their right ears.

"What was that for, Ma?" I haven't done anything!" protested Dermot.

"Sticking out your tongue is a very rude thing to do. And doing it in church makes it even worse".

"Ouch, Ma! that hurt!" exclaimed Bobby.  
"It was intended to! Now, whichever of you two has it, give it back to Danny this instant!"

"I haven't got it Ma! Honest!" wailed Dermot.

"I haven't got ..." began Bobby, but then seeing the look on his Ma's face thought better of continuing to protest his innocence.

"Yes, Ma". Sighing dejectedly, Bobby now made an elaborate show of searching his own pockets. "Well, I never!" he giggled, as with a broad grin and an exaggerated flourish, having retrieved the missing ring, he handed it back to his elder brother.

* * *

 **Bidassoa river, Pyrennees, early morning, 28th June 1940.**

Where it came from, they never knew, but there was a sudden gust of wind which funnelled down the gorge of the river and hit the swaying footbridge with tremendous force, making the rickety structure oscillate back and forth. Heedless of being heard, her only thought being for the safety of her young son, Edith screamed to Kurt to hang on tightly to the ropes, that it would pass. As it was, the roar of the river prevented her shouted cry being heard by those on duty in the customs post.

Then slowly, very slowly indeed, the swaying of the bridge began to lessen and with that, they both now scrambled across the remaining slats and reached the opposite bank. Joining Tomás, ducking down as he indicated they should do, they crawled past the customs post.

A moment later, along with Hope, all three of them were safely over the border, and finally on Spanish soil.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, early morning, 20th July 1940.**

They lay entwined in each other's arms.

"Did you know about it?"  
"Hm?"  
"What we've just done?"

"Max, I grew up on a farm. I intend to train as a doctor. Does that answer your question?"

He grinned, toying with a tendril of her hair.

"Yes, I suppose so".

"But if what you're really asking me is, do I make a habit of going to bed with young men ..."

"No, of course not!" Max sounded appalled. That hadn't been what he meant at all.

"Because the answer to that question is most definitely, no. Not until tonight".

"You mean that you've never ..."  
"Until now? No. What about you?"

She turned in his arms; saw him blush, then shyly shake his head.

"No". His honesty earned him a gentle kiss. "But not because ... not because I didn't want to …" Max stammered. He blushed an even deeper shade of red. "What I mean is … with what's wrong with me … I didn't think it right that I … That's why just now … when I … I'm sorry". He turned away from her and buried his face in the pillow.

Claire nodded her head, as everything now fell into place.

She had wondered why, even though they had been careful and taken the wise precaution of using condoms, when, on the two occasions he had reached the point of his release, Max had eased himself out of her. All things considered, that first time, it had been just as well he did, when, owing both to nervousness and what she knew now was also his own inexperience, Max had failed to put the condom on properly and instead of doing what it was designed to do, his semen had splattered all over her thigh.

"Max, it's all right. I do understand, really I do".

"You do?" he mumbled brokenly.  
"Of course I do and I love you all the more for it".

* * *

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed. It was three o'clock in the morning.

"Don't go!" Stretching out his arms to her, Max looked up, pleadingly, from the rumpled bed.  
"I must!" Having pulled her nightdress quickly over her head, Claire rose from the bed, and moved towards the door.

Slipping out of bed after her, Max hurriedly retrieved and pulled on his own discarded pyjama bottoms.

"Then I'd better see you back to your bedroom".

"Max, really, there's no need," she said over by the door, pressing a forefinger gently to his lips, resting her head comfortably against his bare chest.

"There's every need!" he said earnestly. Max kissed the top of her head.

"Why? I managed to make it all the way up here from Devonshire and into your bed unaided. I think I can find my way back to my own room!" exclaimed Claire.

"That's not what I meant either".

"What then?"  
"Coming with you means I don't have to say goodnight, mein Liebling. At least, not just yet!" In the early morning light, Claire saw him sport a bashful grin.

"Oh, very well, have it your own way!"

"I usually do!"  
"Is that a fact, Herr Schönborn? Well, we'll have to see about that!" As she moved towards the door, Claire threw him a provocative glance over her shoulder.

"Wait, while I see there's no-one about".

"At this time of the morning, oh, Max, really!"

"Better to be sure. My father would skin me alive if ever he got to find out what we've just done!"

"Very well then".

Opening the door, Max looked out into the corridor; first right and then left.

"All clear!" he whispered, reaching for her hand.

* * *

"I definitely heard something".

"Sybil, darlin', yous must have been dreaming. Go back to sleep!"  
"Tom!"

"Oh, all right. Yous a mighty hard woman, Sybil Branson. Heart of stone. Forcing a sick man out his bed in the middle of the night!" he grumbled good naturedly.

"After your sterling performance earlier tonight, Mr. Branson, I think we can safely say that you're well on the road to recovery!"

"I told you that doctor didn't know what he was talking about".

"Not at all. Don't be so damned smug!"

"So, if you don't see me off with your demands, milady, you're quite happy for me to risk life and limb at the hands of an intruder, is that it?"

"Of course not! But if you feel in the slightest need of protection, there's a poker in the hearth," giggled Sybil pulling the eiderdown up to her face.

"Oh, thanks!"

Wearing just his vest and pyjama bottoms, Tom heaved himself unwillingly out of bed, stretched and yawned. Like Matthew, and for the very same reason, tonight he had found sleep hard to come by. Tom scratched his head and then shuffled barefoot across the room. Why on earth Matthew had seen fit to make that ridiculous comment this evening at dinner about Barrow leaving Downton to care for an elderly relative, he couldn't fathom. While he knew Matthew had meant no harm, thought he was being helpful, in the Billiards Room afterwards, Tom had told him that he had been a feckin' eejit to have said anything at all. Least said soonest mended, or rather it would have been if Matthew hadn't said what he had. After all, as far as Tom could recall, Barrow didn't have any relatives, other than a sister. They were not particularly close, probably on account of the butler's proclivities. Tom shook his head. Maybe he was worrying unnecessarily; perhaps it didn't matter after all. Even so he would have much preferred it if Matthew had stuck to what they had told the police the other day.

Over by the fireplace Tom paused, picked up the heavy poker, and then quietly opened the bedroom door.

* * *

"Oh, no! Not again!"  
"Matthew!"

"Oh, very well …"

By the fireplace, Matthew paused, bent down, picked up the poker, cautiously opened the door, and headed out onto the darkened landing.

* * *

Soft footfalls heading towards him along the passage alerted Tom to the fact that Sybil had been right after all. There was someone sneaking along the corridor. By the head of the stairs, having found the switch, raising the poker in his other hand, he snapped on the light; to be confronted by the sight of his brother-in-law, Matthew, clad in his dressing gown, pyjamas and slippers, similarly armed with a raised poker. Embarrassed, sheep-faced, both men slowly lowered their improvised weapons.

"Oh, it's you! Out for a midnight stroll?"

"I could ask you very much the same question!"

"So what are you …"  
"Sybil thought she heard someone creeping along the corridor. What about you?"

"Mary thought the same; I told her she was imagining things". Matthew grinned.

"I said the same to Sybil".

"Crawley women, eh?"  
"For sure!"

"Well then …"  
"Goodnight, Matthew".

"Goodnight, Tom".

* * *

"And?"  
"And nothing".

"I heard you talking to someone".

"It was Matthew".

"Matthew? What was he …"  
"Don't ask!"  
"But …"  
"Sybil, darlin', go back to sleep!"

* * *

"I heard voices. So who was it?"  
"Tom".

"Tom? What on earth was he doing out …"

"Don't ask!"

"But …"

"Mary, go back to sleep!"

* * *

Meanwhile, sated, happy, and content, once more safe and sound, singularly unaware of all the fuss they had caused, alone in their respective bedrooms, Max and Claire drifted off to sleep.

* * *

 **San Sebastían, Fascist Spain, 30th June 1940.**

Crossing the border into Spain had been difficult enough. Thereafter had followed another exhausting hike, up hill to Erlaitz and a then further two hours walk, with once again Kurt being carried for much of the way by Tomás, until finally at an isolated railway station, they had boarded a train bound for San Sebastían. It was now that Kurt's inability to speak proved providential as the train was very busy and at one point a kindly woman had tapped him on the knee and offered him a couple of freshly peeled oranges. With Edith pretending to be German, it fell to Tomás to explain the little boy's handicap; thanking her on Kurt's behalf, while he grinned, sucked greedily on the juicy segments and, in the process, drew sympathetic looks from several of the other passengers.

Their first proper glimpse of San Sebastían was from the swaying train as it rattled its way down into the town in which there turned out to be a large number of Nationalist soldiers and which did nothing to lift their spirits. Having got off the train at the railway station, well nigh exhausted, they were led on foot by Tomás through a veritable rabbit warren of narrow streets, twisting and turning this way and that, so as to lessen the chance of being followed, to a safe house in the heart of the old quarter. Here both Edith and Kurt stayed for just over a week, resting and recovering their strength, until, finally, along with Hope, passage was found for them on board a tramp steamer, out of Bilbao, bound for Dublin, which had put in unexpectedly to San Sebastían for repairs, for which the captain needed money, and so a deal, acceptable to all, had been struck.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Temple of the Four Winds, 15th July 1940.**

Standing on the flight of steps leading to the Temple of the Four Winds, Inspector Craddock and Police Sergeant Jenkins, both of the West Yorkshire Constabulary, watched impassively as the ambulance carrying the body of the deceased butler was driven slowly away, bound for the mortuary.

"Know what, Jenkins?"

"No, sir. What?"

"Somethin' about this bleedin' business just don't add up. To believe 'is 'igh and mighty bloody lordship back there, along with that fuckin' Fenian brother-in-law of 'is, after years spent workin' 'ere for them bloody nobs, this bloke Barrow makes some excuse all sudden like 'bout not wantin' a group of bloody kids in the 'ouse or some such rubbish and gives up 'is job as butler. Them jobs don't come easy mind, oh no.

"No, sir. I suppose not".

"You suppose not? Course not! Wait a minute ... that business a couple days ago, of them two Germans staying 'ere. Weren't this bloke Barrow involved somehow in spillin' the beans? And now he's gone a blown 'is brains out. Mark my words, Jenkins, there's more to this than meets the eye. Somethin' that 'asn't come out. Leastways, not yet. That 'ousemaid, who said she 'eard a row in the study. What were 'er name again?"

Jenkins consulted his notebook.

"Beryl, sir".

"That's right, Beryl. 'er 'alf day today is it?"  
"Yes, sir".

"Try and get 'er own 'er own. Find out if she's any idea what the row were about. Turn on the old charm".

"Yes, sir".

* * *

 **Somewhere in the Bay Of Biscay, 13th July 1940.**

The tramp steamer pitched and rolled heavily once again.

Below in the only cabin on board, seated at a plain, bare table, instinctively Edith grabbed for the half empty wine bottle and the two glasses as they slid sideways; at the same time glancing with obvious concern over to where, with Hope curled up at his feet, tucked up snug and warm, Kurt lay sleeping soundly beneath a blanket on the narrow bunk. In the circumstances, it was the best place for him. Out here in the wide expanse of the Bay of Biscay, the summer storm had hit unexpectedly and with a savage ferocity.

Sitting opposite her, the girl smiled, seemingly unconcerned, while her own child, a little boy, no more than about two years old, apparently unaffected by the incessant rolling of the ship, played with her necklace of wooden coloured beads.

"You often look at me as though you know me, señora".

Edith smiled; then shook her head.

"No, not you. Your little boy; he reminds me very much of someone. One of my nephews".

"You have several?"

"Yes".

"How many?"  
"My elder sister has two boys, my younger sister three, so five in all".

The girl smiled.

"Five".

"And you, señora?"  
"I have … I had ... two boys myself. My eldest son and his father, my husband, were both drowned off St. Nazaire a few weeks ago when the Germans bombed and sank the ship we were all supposed to sail on, home to England".

"I'm so very sorry".

Edith nodded.

"Thank you".

"Your little boy, has he always been ..." The girl fumbled for the word. "My English is not ..."  
"Your English is very good".

The girl laughed displaying a set of remarkably white teeth.

"I had a very good teacher, for sure! Your little boy ... in Spanish we say _mudo_ ".

Edith nodded, comprehension dawning.

"Mute. No. Not always. Only since his father and brother were killed when the ship we were to sail home on back to England was sunk by the Germans".

"How terrible".

"Thank you. Given time, I hope that one day he will speak again. What's his name, your little boy?"  
"Daniel. After his father. He was … someone very special. We met … in the mountains … during the Civil War. He and his friends … came out here to help us fight against the Nationalists. Then he went home".

Despite what she now believed to be the truth of it, her thoughts racing, Edith had to be certain. She had learned from Tom and Sybil how it was that Danny had joined the Irish Volunteers and sailed for Spain in the spring of 1937. Along with the child's dark good looks, those two simple words, _for su_ _re_ , had more or less confirmed what Edith suspected ever since she first laid eyes on the little boy but a matter of a couple of days ago when they had come on board the Pedro in the harbour at San Sebastían, after spending several days in hiding in the safe house in the the old town.

"He wasn't Spanish then?"  
"No".

"Home to where? To England?"

The girl shook her head.  
"No, to Ireland. He was Irish. From Dublin. When he and his friends had to leave, he wanted me to go with him. I told him I had to stay. At the time, neither of us knew that I was carrying his child".

"And you said your little boy …"

"…was named after him? Yes".

"What was his name, your boy's father?"  
"Danny. Danny Branson".

"Why do you ask, señora?"

The steamer lurched, giving Edith time to think before she answered. Then, as the ship righted itself yet again, she reached for the bottle of wine and poured a generous measure into each of the two cracked glasses.

"Here, I think you may have need of this," she said evenly.

* * *

 **Somewhere in the Irish Sea, 18th July 1940.**

At least, so far, out here on the Irish Sea, the weather had been kinder to them that it had been in the storm wracked Bay of Biscay. With Hope padding slowly beside them, holding Kurt by the hand, Edith was strolling along the deck in the warm sunshine. Just a few more hours and they would be in Holyhead. A couple of sailors paused in swabbing the deck to pass the time of day with both mother and son. Even in the short time they had known him, having heard what had happened on board the _Lancastria_ , whether or not they were from a neutral country, several of the crew of the _Erin_ had become very fond of Kurt, adopting the young boy as a kind of unofficial mascot. While the two sailors continued to make a fuss of Kurt, trying to teach him how to box, standing by the ship's rail, Edith found herself wondering if her hurriedly despatched telegram from the GPO in Dublin had yet reached Downton. How they would all react to the terrible news about Friedrich and Max; found herself remembering back to when the family had first met him, in the sale d'attente at the Gare Maritime in Calais back in that long gone summer of '32 just before they all had boarded the Rome Express, bound for Florence, a nine year old, sandy haired, blue-eyed boy, much the same age Kurt was now.

 _She had watched approvingly as Max glanced shyly backwards over his left shoulder, seemingly seeking from her some kind of reassurance for whatever it was that was about to happen. She had smiled and nodded her head in encouragement._

 _"Versuchs doch!"_

 _So now, with his back to her, standing ramrod straight in front of all five of them, she saw Max click his heels smartly together and then bow gravely from the waist, first to Matthew, and then to Mary, murmuring_ _Graf and then Gräfin to them in turn, before shaking Matthew firmly by the hand; taking Mary's proffered right hand in his own, giving her a perfect baisse-main without any trace of embarrassment whatsoever._

 _Then Max had straightened up, inclined his head smartly first to Tom, to whom he referred equally politely as_ _Herr Branson_ _before shaking him just as firmly by the hand as he had done Matthew; he had nodded to Sybil, whom she heard him call Frau Branson, and to whom he also gave a baisse-main. These pleasantries now completed, smiling broadly, Max had taken a couple of steps backwards, bowed once again, and then moved to stand next her. She had smiled at him, gently squeezed and patted his upper left arm in reassurance_.

Edith felt her eyes mist with tears; knew that it did not do to look back or to dwell on what might have been. Still, after all that she had lost, she had young Kurt. His well being was now her sole concern. After they reached England, when they had recovered, she would take Kurt up to see a specialist in Harley Street, to see what could be done about helping him learn to speak again. Maybe …

Then, all of a sudden a series of shouted cries from the bow of the ship arrested her attention.

"There on the starboard bow!"

"What the … Jaysus!"

"It's a feckin' U-boat!"

"And with the skipper from the North!"

One of the sailors pointed towards where, within clear sight and hailing distance of the steamer, cascading torrents of water, the dark grey conning tower of a submarine was breaking the choppy surface of the sea. Silently, they watched from the ship's rail as uniformed sailors emerged from the top of the conning tower, clambered down and made their way quickly along the heaving deck of the submarine, towards the gun mounted at the bow which was then quickly trained on the freighter.

A German officer now hailed them through a megaphone, in heavily accented English, demanding to know who they were, if the _Erin_ was an Irish vessel and that the captain be rowed over to the U-boat so that the ship's papers could be inspected and all those on board be accounted for. If it was deemed necessary a boarding party would be sent across to search the steamer. As if to emphasis that they were in deadly earnest, the gun crew on the deck of the submarine now fired a live salvo in the direction of the _Erin_. As it had been intended to, it fell short of its target but in the process sending up a column of sea water and soaking to the skin all those closest to it. Nonetheless, the point had been made; was chilling in its stark simplicity:

 _Comply as you have been ordered to, or else face the consequences._

Alerted to what was happening, Captain McAuley hurried up on deck, to find Edith and Kurt, both of them clearly nervous, standing over by the ship's rail. Catching sight of the U-boat, the captain shrugged dismissively, then turned and smiled, he hoped reassuringly, at the woman and her young son.

"Don't worry for sure; I won't let anything happen to yous. Not after what yous been through". The captain ruffled Kurt's hair. "As I told yous down below, I know the Harbour Master in Holyhead. I'll have the both of yous ashore there safe and sound in just a couple of hours".

* * *

With his papers having been found to be in order, when questioned about the identity of the woman and boy glimpsed standing by the ship's rail, Captain McAuley assured the U-boat's commander that they were his own wife and child. Mindful of the fact that he himself was under strict instructions not to cause undue difficulties for, let alone sink, the shipping of a neutral country, accepting at face value the word of a fellow officer, the commander of the U-boat gave orders that the _Erin_ immediately be allowed to proceed to Holyhead.

As for Edith's telegram ...

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, early morning, 20th July 1940.**

As the first fingers of daylight filtered into the bedroom through the crack in the curtains, even at this early hour of the day, on the morning of his brother's wedding, Simon Crawley was already awake, lying flat on his back in bed, his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling, watching a spider spin its web. Simon sighed and shook his head in disbelief. After all, when he had told Uncle Tom what had happened to him, at the hands of Barrow, he had not expected it to end like this.

Thereafter, Simon had answered truthfully, as far as he was able, the questions which Papa had put to him, and was relieved that none of them concerned Tristan. Whatever Uncle Tom had told Papa, that side of things, appeared to be a dead letter. He had agreed to what both his father and Uncle Tom had suggested, to the meeting down at the shepherd's hut so as to force Barrow to reveal his hand but never for one moment could he have imagined that then Barrow would go and do what he did.

After Uncle Tom had pulled Barrow out of the shepherd's hut by the scruff of his neck and then sat on him in the wood, the butler had been forced to his feet and then frogmarched back up to the house at the end of a loaded, pointed pistol by Simon's father and his uncle, with Simon following miserably on behind. Throughout the journey, Barrow had continued to protest his innocence of any wrongdoing; said he had been out for an evening stroll during the course of which he had heard someone moving around in the shepherd's hut and had gone inside to investigate, all of which was palpably untrue. When that had failed to produce the desired result, Barrow had begun to make oblique references to something that he said he knew about Simon, at which point Uncle Tom had told him, and in no uncertain terms, to button his lip.

The inevitable final confrontation between the then butler, Simon's father, and his uncle, had taken place that same evening, in the earl of Grantham's study. There were raised voices and a slamming of doors which had brought Simon's mother and his Aunt Sybil out onto the landing to find out just what on earth was going on, desisted from their intention of going downstairs only by the timely intervention of Uncle Friedrich, who said in a hushed tone that as far as he understood, it was something to do with who it was who had revealed the presence here at Downton of himself and Max to the authorities.

And then had come, an ominous silence, broken only when the door to the study finally opened, and an ashen faced Barrow came out. Simon had watched nervously from the gallery as the butler walked none too steadily across the stone flagged hall towards the green baize door leading downstairs to the Servant's Hall and the offices. As he reached the door, Barrow had paused and looked about him, Simon dodging behind a pillar to avoid being seen. A moment later and the baize door closed.

Although Simon never saw Barrow again, he was aware from what he overheard his father and Uncle Tom discussing subsequently, that Barrow had been made to sign a prepared letter of resignation which had been placed before him; apparently, it had been either that or else the police were to be summoned. He was to leave Downton on the morrow and that seemed to be that; until, of course, down near the Temple of the Four Winds, Barrow had put that pistol to his head and blown his brains out.

Then, with the discovery of the butler's body by a passing gamekeeper, it was as if all hell had broken loose. Papa had been informed and then the local constabulary had turned up in the guise of old Evans on his bicycle from the village. In due course further officers arrived, this time from York, who had proceeded to interview both Papa and Uncle Tom. From one of the remaining servants, Simon learned that Barrow's body had been taken away; that following the visit to the house by the police, the second in just three days, his father, along with Mama, Uncle Tom, Aunt Sybil and Uncle Friedrich had all been closeted in his father's study for the much of the latter part of the afternoon, presumably discussing what had happened and what was to be done; Simon praying fervently that he had not formed part of that same discussion.

It seemed that he had not; for when Mama, Uncle Tom, Aunt Sybil, and Uncle Friedrich all trooped out of Papa's study, on catching sight of both Simon and Max standing in the hall, Uncle Tom had come over, put his arm round his shoulders, and told him that there was nothing to worry about, that all would be well.

For his part, Simon was not so sure that it would.

* * *

 **Church of St. Mary the Virgin, Downton, 11.15am, 20th July 1940.**

As, escorted by her proud father, Saiorse, followed by Rebecca and Emily passed by her on her way towards where Robert and Danny were standing, Sybil found herself recalling a small church built of grey stone far across the Irish Sea in Clontarf, where in June 1919, she had married Tom, recalling too the birth of Saiorse in the Cottage Hospital here at Downton in March 1921. While Danny had arrived in this world without undue difficulty, as might have been expected, true to form Saiorse had started as she meant to go on; Sybil's labour with her lasting for considerably longer, nigh on seven hours, by which time Sybil was utterly spent. What made it infinitely worse had been the fact that Tom had not been there to share in the joy of her birth; at the time he was still missing, believed dead, killed by the Black and Tans, with only Sybil clinging to the unshakeable belief that he would come back to her. That notwithstanding, the look on Tom's face when, several months later, finally she had been able to place Saiorse in his arms, made all of it worthwhile.

Saiorse and Tom had now reached the spot where Robert and Danny were standing.

Watching them closely Mary saw the smiles that passed between bride and groom; remembered too that she and Matthew had exchanged similar looks and on virtually the same spot in June 1920. When all was said and done, all three of the Crawley girls, as Mary knew Matthew and Tom still referred to them, even after all these years, had married for love and not position. Only Edith had married someone who by the mores of her grandmother would have been found socially acceptable and even he was a Catholic. And look how that marriage had ended: in a watery grave, somewhere off the west coast of France.

Half turning in her pew, Mary saw Friedrich staring into space, his eyes seemingly fixed on the timber roof of the nave, while beside him it was obvious that Max only had eyes for Miss Barton. Mary grimaced. The girl was pleasant enough, Sybil had taken to her instantly, found her to be a kindred spirit, and both Matthew and Tom appreciated her no-nonsense approach to life. Nonetheless, Mary thought she now understood what it was Danny had meant when he said she was _managing_. Someone who, if she wanted something, or somebody, went out and got it. In the absence of Edith, notwithstanding the fact that he was now seventeen years old, Mary considered she had a duty of care towards Max. Ever since that day on the terrace steps at the Villa San Callisto in distant Fiesole, when she had saved his life, she had felt very protective of him, and she would see to it that he did not fall prey to some scheming little farmer's daughter from distant Devonshire. Mary was still contemplating the problem of Miss Barton as Reverend Davis announced the first hymn and the small congregation now rose to sing _Praise My Soul The King Of_ _Heaven._

* * *

 **Church of St. Mary the Virgin, Downton, 11.45am, 20th July 1940.**

It was Bobby who saw it first.

Having done so, he tapped Danny smartly on the shoulder and then nudged Dermot seated beside him in the pew; indicated the source of his amusement with a nod of his head. Seeing what had so amused his brother, Danny grinned and Dermot giggled, drawing a reproving look and a peremptory _ssh_ from their mother. Not that it seemed to make the slightest difference, to Danny, to Bobby or to young Dermot, who knew that Ma's bark was worse than her bite; while seeing the wide grin spreading across Tom's face, it was obvious that he seemed to find the whole incident just as funny. Sybil shook her head in disbelief. Honestly, sometimes, in fact more often than not, it was as if she had four boys in the family and not just three.

On the opposite side of the aisle, as the Order of Service duly progressed, nervously alert for any mishap, however minor, which might threaten to mar today's proceedings, with her hands more than full keeping a watchful eye, not only on her mother, but also on both Rebecca and little Emily who as bridesmaids were seated in the pew in front of her, now, on hearing Sybil's hushed _ssh_ , immediately alarmed, Mary looked questioning across at her sister. She saw Sybil incline her head and then, Mary saw it too. Dear God! How absolutely mortifying. Cora peered round and, seeing what was happening, merely smiled whereupon Mary nudged Matthew sharply. He turned his head but then, having seen the source of his wife's concern he simply nodded, chuckled quietly to himself and then shrugged his shoulders dismissively.

Now, as she caught sight of Tom grinning, Mary shook her head in exasperation.

Of course, after all this time, knowing the two of them as well as she did, Mary realised she ought to have known better. This was precisely the reaction she should have expected from both Matthew and Tom. Sitting on his own, seated behind his parents, thinking about Tristan, Simon had seen it too. Picking up Oscar, he made the old teddy bear wave its left arm in friendly greeting. Then, with a grin, Simon tapped Max gently on the shoulder, while in turn Max whispered something to Claire, and then to his father. Having seen what he had indicated, both smiled and nodded their heads.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, late morning, 11.30am, 20th July 1940.**

Notwithstanding the nature of the singularly regrettable occurrence that had led directly to it, Henry, or rather Mr. Pickard, as he was now known was rather enjoying his promotion to butler even if, as he suspected, it would prove to be but a temporary elevation to the position he had long coveted. After all, here in the West Riding, the butler of Downton Abbey was something of a local institution. Even so, in the interests of economy, as Mr. Pickard knew only too well, many great houses had abolished the position altogether; something which would not have found favour with either one of his immediate predecessors, both of them having been sticklers for convention and what was considered proper.

And seated in the Butler's Pantry, while considering the merits of his two immediate predecessors, Mr. Pickard found himself reflecting also on the widely differing ways in which they had both departed from this world.

Mr. Barrow's demise, while of course regrettable, was of but recent occurrence and, equally regrettably, very much still the talk of the district. Indeed, thought Mr. Pickard, the incident itself had verged on the theatrical and was, reflected the new butler, far more worthy of a performance by Douglas Fairbanks Jr., similar to that which he had given in _The Prisoner of Zenda,_ and just as melodramatic.

With the late Mr. Carson, it had been an entirely different matter.

Some four years had now elapsed since the winter of 1936, when Mr. Carson, by then aged eighty, had passed away, far less theatrically and far more discretely, in a nursing home, in genteel Harrogate. The old boy had been completely gaga, or so it was rumoured, worrying repeatedly about the whereabouts of the Crawley family silver, which of course was no longer his concern, and equally obsessed with the notion that his wife was trying to poison him with her cooking which, while entirely possible, after all it was but two years earlier that Ethel Lillie Major had seen off her husband with corned beef laced with strychnine, was unlikely. So, when it came, the death of Mr. Carson was considered a merciful release by those who had known him in his prime.

After his demise, the tongues had truly begun to wag.

It was said that his widow, the former Mrs. Hughes, had hit the bottle, being especially partial to a fine malt. Now whether or not any of this was true, no-one here at Downton could tell, at least not with any degree of certainty. However, the florid colour of Elsie Carson's cheeks at _dear Charlie's_ funeral did rather tend to lend weight to what was being rumoured, although at the time she herself insisted that her ruddy complexion was caused by nothing more than a chill north east wind.

However, having then had to be helped from the service, after being seen imbibing from a silver hip flask, was rather more difficult to explain. Those of a kindly disposition considered the contents of the afore-mentioned flask were for medicinal purposes only; others, aware of the shares which Elsie had purchased sometime ago, long before Charlie shuffled off this mortal coil, in the Bowmore Distillery on the Isle of Islay in the Inner Hebrides, were inclined to take a less charitable view.

Now, bearing in mind what both Mr. Carson and Mr. Barrow would have considered to be both right and proper, then undoubtedly what happened here at the abbey later this morning, after the family had left for the church, would have appalled them.

It was but half an hour or so after Miss Saiorse, along with her father, had left in the Rolls for the parish church for her wedding to Master Robert, that the electric bell board in the Servants' Hall and which had long since replaced the old bells, lit up; indicating that there was someone at the front door. When alerted to the fact by Beryl, Mr. Pickard thought it more than likely that the unexpected visitor was another of Master Robert's chums from the Royal Air Force. After all, one of them, apparently a navigator, had already turned up here at the abbey earlier this morning, looking for the parish church and thereafter the Grantham Arms. Given that St. Mary's was possessed of a particularly fine spire, its location therefore obvious to one and all from some considerable distance, and with the presence of the Grantham Arms on the High Street in the village marked by a large, ornate hanging sign, Mr. Pickard had given a wry chuckle. He didn't much fancy the chances of the air crew if they were relying on the skills of very same navigator when on a bombing raid over Germany.

"It's all right, Beryl, I'll go," said Mr. Pickard donning his jacket before setting off at a leisurely pace for the stairs leading to the hall. As Beryl disappeared to resume her duties, Mr. Pickard sighed. He would have to have a word with Beryl and find out just who that bloke had been he'd seen with her going into the tea shop on Back Lane just the other day. At the time, they'd been too far away for him to see just who it was but he'd looked familiar. Now, as Mr. Pickard passed the bell board, the light for the front door of the house lit up once again. Whoever it was was most clearly desirous of gaining admission to the house. Well, he'd just have to bide his time, thought the butler, decidedly annoyed at being considered to be at the beck and call of any johnny-come-lately.

When some minutes later the neophyte butler reached the front door, afterwards, he recalled opening it but then nothing thereafter until waking up and finding himself in a bed down at the Cottage Hospital and suffering from a mild concussion.

* * *

 **Church of St. Mary the Virgin, Downton, midday, 20th July 1940.**

Seemingly completely oblivious to the stir it had caused, having padded in through the open south door, the dog, presumably a stray, continued to amble its way slowly up the aisle, as far as where both Robert and Saiorse now stood side by side at the altar rail. There the dog stopped. After all, it could go no further. Panting, it sat down on its haunches, almost as if it was waiting for something to happen.

Robert and Saiorse both exchanged amused glances. Indeed, judging by the faintest of smiles which played about the corners of his mouth, old Reverend Davis appeared to see the funny side too of what had occurred. Then, nodding to the bride and groom, all three of them now doing their best to assume rather more dignified expressions, the rector continued solemnly with the Order of Service.

" _Therefore if any man can shew any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace"_.

As was customary at this point in the service, the rector now paused; waited silently before continuing.

A moment of complete and utter stillness ensued.

Both of which were only to be expected.

But what now followed was not.

An anguished cry which tore at the heart strings of everyone present, followed swiftly by the sound of running feet.

" **P... P... Papa! M... M... Max!"**

All heads of the small congregation now turned, astonished beyond measure, disbelieving the evidence of their own eyes, to see, having shrugged off his mother's restraining hand, young Kurt racing down the aisle, while behind him, walking at a rather more sedate pace, there came Edith herself. The next minute, closely followed by Max, Friedrich was out of the pew and down on his knees on the cold stones of the church floor, as Kurt, with tears of joy streaming down his cheeks, fairly bowled into his father's outstretched, open arms, while with Claire and everyone else looking on, for once heedless of the consequences, Max hugged his mother to him in a tight embrace.

A moment or so later, Friedrich rose to his feet; opened wide his arms.

"Halten Sie einfach mich, mein Liebling," Edith sobbed openly. For his part, Friedrich needed no second bidding to do what she had asked of him, while young Kurt was more than content to just be held tightly in the arms of his brother.

From the steps of the altar, Reverend Davis beamed beatifically.

"Shall we all sing the next hymn?"

A moment later, as the organ thundered out the opening chords of the tune _Blaenwern,_ everyone present, Branson, Crawley, and Schönborn, rose to their feet to sing a heart felt, joyful rendition of the traditional wedding favourite: _Love Divine_ :

 _Love divine, all loves excelling,_  
 _joy of heaven, to earth come down,_  
 _fix in us thy humble dwelling,_  
 _all thy faithful mercies crown._  
 _Jesus, thou art all compassion,_  
 _pure, unbounded love thou art;_  
 _visit us with thy salvation,_  
 _enter every trembling heart._

 _Come, almighty to deliver,_  
 _let us all thy life receive;_  
 _suddenly return, and never,_  
 _nevermore thy temples leave._  
 _Thee we would be always blessing,_  
 _serve thee as thy hosts above,_  
 _pray, and praise thee without ceasing,_  
 _glory in thy perfect love._

 _Finish then thy new creation;_  
 _pure and spotless let us be;_  
 _let us see thy great salvation_  
 _perfectly restored in thee:_  
 _changed from glory into glory,_  
 _till in heaven we take our place,_  
 _till we cast our crowns before thee,_  
 _lost in wonder, love, and praise._

The ecstatic reunion of the Schönborns that now followed Edith and young Kurt's re-appearance at Downton almost overshadowed the wedding of Robert and Saiorse. Almost, but not quite. Not that anyone really minded for as Mary herself had said, family, in all its guises, was what came first.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Edith and Kurt's escape from Occupied France across the Pyrenees into Spain is based on accounts of several who made similar perilous journeys at this time.

The incident involving the confrontation between the fictitious SS. Erin and a German U-boat in the Irish Sea is based on something similar that really happened. During the war, while Ireland was neutral, she sent considerable amounts of food over to Great Britain. Even so, U boat commanders were under strict instructions not to sink Irish shipping, which still flew the ensign of the British Mercantile Marine, irrespective of where the vessels were bound.

Directed by David O. Selznick, better known for _Gone With The Wind_ , starring, among others, Douglas Fairbanks Jr., _The Prisoner of Zenda_ was released in 1937.

Ethel Lillie Major (1892-1934) poisoned her husband with strychnine which she put into his food. Had it not been for the police receiving an anonymous note, suggesting they look a little more closely into the death of Arthur Major, it is quite probable that Ethel would have got away with it. Instead, when questioned further, Ethel said "I did not know my husband died from strychnine poisoning". The police inspector questioning her had been careful not to mention strychnine, so Ethel effectively convicted herself. Tried for murder, she was found guilty and hanged in Hull Prison in Yorkshire.

With words written by Charles Wesley (1707-1778 ) and music by William Penfro Rowlands (1860-1937) _Love Divine_ is often sung at traditional church weddings in England, my own included. And no wonder; it is a beautiful hymn.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Wedding Day Part II

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, evening 20th July 1940.**

Here in the West Riding of Yorkshire, on this warm summer's evening, the imposing main door of Downton Abbey stood wide open; affording access both to the house and gardens, as well as over to the large, white canvas marquee which had been erected on the front lawn several days ago.

As anyone dwelling in the West Riding interested in such things might have told you, along presumably with those of a similar disposition to be found living further afield, one of the chief architectural glories of Downton Abbey, was its magnificent eighteenth century panelled Ballroom. Lying at the rear of the great house, and commissioned by the third earl, complete with its carved pier glasses, exquisite plaster ceiling with medallions of the Four Seasons, and its pair of cut-glass chandeliers made by William Parker, down the succeeding centuries, the room had played host to all manner of grand occasions. However, following the death of Robert Crawley fifth earl of Grantham in 1931, its double doors firmly closed, the ornate furnishings and chandeliers shrouded in heavy dust sheets, the Ballroom had lain disused.

However, this evening, with both sets of doors, those inside and those which led onto the terrace, flung wide open, the dust sheets and most of the furniture removed, the Ballroom was once again in use. Even so, the painted cherubs on the ornate ceiling, silent witnesses to countless balls and dances in the past, to polkas and waltzes by Strauss and Waldteufel, could never have envisaged the scene taking place below them tonight.

Swing had come to Downton.

And, as the pulsating beat of _In The Mood_ echoed through the once hallowed halls, those here at the abbey attending Robert and Saiorse Crawley's wedding reception might have been forgiven for thinking that the war, with all its attendant horrors, had been nothing more than a passing nightmare.

* * *

In a decidedly reflective mood, half way down the last flight of the main staircase, the countess of Grantham paused. A moment later, she smiled, and shook her head. What on earth Papa, let alone Granny, would have made of it all was open to question. Not only the marriage itself, of first cousins who as children had detested each other, or so it always seemed to everyone in the immediate family, let alone the unimagined homecoming of Edith and Kurt, but also what was now taking place here at the abbey. For, if this was Robert and Saiorse's idea of a quiet affair, then Mary shuddered to think what form anything a touch more lively might have taken.

Apart from the deafening noise coming from the Ballroom, along with the constant chatter of voices and the sound of laughter, the air was thick with cigarette smoke. Below in the Hall, Ruth and Mavis, two of the remaining housemaids, each of them bearing a tray of drinks, were passing back and forth among the guests. For the most part these were young men, nearly all of them in uniform, along with a bevy of young women wearing dresses which not so long ago, would have been considered positively indecent; who if they were not in the Ballroom, were wandering freely back and forth throughout the ground floor rooms of the house. Most of the guests Mary herself did not recognise, apart that was from some of the younger tenants off the estate and a handful of girls from the village, those who had grown up with Robert, and who he and Saiorse had asked to their Reception; proof visible, if any were needed, as to how the old barriers of both class and social distinction, once so strictly enforced, had begun to crumble away.

* * *

A young man in RAF uniform, obviously a friend of Robert's, piqued Mary's curiosity.

Unlike his boisterous compatriots, he was engaged in quiet contemplation of the magnificent glass domed clock which graced the marble table near the door. It was indeed a beautiful thing but, unlike most of the furniture, ornaments and paintings in the house, it had not been in the family long, having been acquired comparatively recently, by granny back in 1922, passing on her death to Papa in 1926, and thereafter, following Robert's death, to Mary herself in 1931.

Made by the workshop of Carl Fabergé, former court jeweller to the last Tsar, it had once graced a mantelpiece in a palace in St. Petersburg which had belonged to the Sheremetevs. Captain Alexei Sheremetev had been someone very dear to granny whom she had met way long ago, in 1883, when both she and her husband had travelled to Russia to witness the coronation Tsar Alexander III. According to granny, Tom very much resembled the young Alexei who as an old man, granny had been distraught to learn from a mutual acquaintance, had been shot by firing squad by the Bolsheviks in 1921.

A variety of objects and personal possessions which had belonged once to the Imperial Family and to members of the Russian nobility had found their way into the hands of art dealers and auction houses in the 1920s and it was from one of the former that granny had purchased the clock. That it had once belonged to the Sheremetevs was beyond question, on account of the dedicatory inscription engraved in Cyrillic script on the base; the clock itself a constant, audible, visible reminder of a now vanished world.

* * *

At her approach, the young man turned.

Above his left breast pocket, hanging from a fine silver chain, Mary saw a pair of small metal wings. Memory stirred and now recalling to mind something Robert had told her, she realised that the young man must be Polish. Something else that Robert had told her too was just how brave the Polish pilots were proving to be in the ongoing fight in the skies over southern England against the might of the Luftwaffe.

Mary had never met a Pole before. Other than that Poland, formerly part of the Russian Empire in the days of the Tsars, had been invaded by Germany in September 1939; the single event which had started the whole damned war, she knew little about the country either, apart from the fact that its capital was Warsaw.

With Pickard in hospital and with no-one else on hand to introduce her, displaying remarkable forbearance, at the foot of the main staircase, Mary waited, paused while the young man consulted what was evidently an English-Polish phrase book.

"Good … evening," he said haltingly and smiled.

"Good evening," replied Mary, choosing to ignore the fact that he had not seen fit to accord the title that was hers by right. Perhaps they did not have an aristocracy in Poland … Then again, that could not be so, for there had been that Polish count, the one darling Matthew had wanted to invite here back in the 20s, before that was he had the singular misfortune to be killed in a racing accident at Monza.

"It … is … beautiful, is it not?" He nodded towards the clock.

"Yes, it is".

"The weather … it is …hot".

"Yes, it is, rather". Why, wondered Mary, did foreigners always want to talk about the weather?

"I come here … to England ... from Kraków. In Poland. Polska".

"Indeed?"

"It is ... big".

"Really". Mary had absolutely no idea as to the geographic size of Poland but then, seeing him looking about him, realised that he must, instead, be referring to the house. She nodded; wondered if landed estates were equally unknown in Poland.

"Yes. Yes, I suppose it is".

He smiled, self consciously, indicating his right arm which was in a sling.

"I ... prang ... my kite".

Mary was totally nonplussed.

Prang? Kite? These days Robert's vocabulary was more often than not, peppered with all manner of words which she had never the like of heard before. Kite … Yes, Robert had referred to his kite. But prang?

"I am the countess of Grantham".

Mary spoke slowly, enunciating each word carefully, at the same time raising her voice, in the time-honoured way of the British when abroad and speaking to foreigners who had little or no English, as if by doing so she could somehow make the young man understand what it was she was saying.

"Perhaps I may I be of assistance?"

At the sound of a familiar voice, Mary turned to see Friedrich, flushed from dancing with Edith, standing beside her, his eyes alive with mirth. Although he and Mary had buried their differences long since, she was still a little wary of him.

"Not unless you happen to speak Polish," she said airily. " **Do** you speak Polish?"

"As it happens, yes, I do. At least enough to make myself understood".

At this startling revelation, Mary's eyes widened perceptibly.

"You do?"

"Indeed". Friedrich smiled and now turned quickly to the young officer. "Mogę przedstawić hrabina Grantham".

 _Grantham_ , Mary understood, but of the rest of it not a single word.

"I explained who you are".

The young man now bowed gravely from the waist; then said something rapidly to Friedrich, a torrent of incomprehensible words, presumably Polish, for once again Mary understood none of it. She saw her brother-in-law nod his head.

"This," said Friedrich, "is Pilot Officer Josef Szlagowski of the Free Polish Air Force. He asks that I apologise to you most sincerely on his behalf for his disrespect in not according you your correct title. He injured his arm a few days ago, when he had to make a forced landing. He also asks that I inform you that before the war he worked as a watchmaker, in his father's business, in Krakow, hence his interest in your clock".

Mary nodded.

"Would you tell Pilot Officer ..."

"Szlagowski," repeated Friedrich helpfully.

Feeling that in this instance, discretion was indeed the better part of valour, Mary decided she would not embarrass herself in front of both Friedrich and Edith by attempting to pronounce the young man's name".

"Tell him, that I understand perfectly. That we … that **I**... am very grateful for the assistance both he and his fellow countrymen are lending us at this present time. Friedrich nodded and did as he had been requested.

Now turning to Pilot Officer Szlagowski, Mary favoured him with a dazzling smile, that brought back memories for Friedrich, of that last summer, back in August 1914, when the world slid over the precipice and into what was now being called the First World War, for here they all were at the beginning of another.

"Welcome to Downton Abbey," Mary said, extending her hand.

* * *

Thankfully, the wedding ceremony itself had proceeded more or less according to Mary's satisfaction, although somewhat overshadowed by the unexpected return here to Downton of both Edith and young Kurt, along with, Mary grimaced, that damned dog. Still no-one, not even the happy couple themselves, seemed to mind in the slightest; it being darling Tom who had caught the mood of everyone down there in the parish church when, hugging Edith to him in a tight embrace, he quipped that her homecoming was nothing if not spectacular but that next time please to give him some warning as he doubted very much if his old heart would survive such another shock.

* * *

Apart from the formal pictures of the bride and groom, their proud parents, and their delighted grandmother, it was as the rest of the photographs were being taken that, in Mary's considered opinion, everything had began to fall apart. Unseen, aped by Rebecca and little Emily, Bobby, Dermot, and Kurt, had all begun pulling faces, although it was not until a few days later, when the proofs were delivered to the abbey for the approval of the earl and countess of Grantham, that this then came to light.

On social occasions such as this, it was customary for a photograph of the assembled family to duly appear in The Times. However, on seeing the photographs, Mary was horrified; said that the younger children resembled a clutch of half-witted inmates let loose from the West Riding Mental Hospital. In another of the pictures, as the camera had panned round the assembled family, by running behind everyone, in a lightning turn of speed, Bobby managed to contrive to appear twice in the same photograph, while in a third Kurt's much loved dog made its second impromptu appearance of the day. Needless to say, this time, no photograph of the assembled Crawley family appeared in The Times.

* * *

Despite trying his very best to ignore it, in the end, after he had led Saiorse on to the floor of the Ballroom for the first dance, Robert's injured leg prevented him from taking any further part in the dancing. Sometime later, from the main staircase, with Saiorse standing beside him, along with their parents, accompanied by Uncle Friedrich and Aunt Edith, from the main staircase, all watched the fun unfolding below them in the Hall.

Led by Danny, and, rather surprisingly, also by Max, accompanied by Miss Barton - high time, thought Mary, that she had a discrete word with Edith on that particular subject - Robert's RAF pals and a group of heavily made-up girls, quite where they had all materialised from no-one seemed either to know or care, had begun an impromptu conga.

Champagne glasses in hand, those at the head led those joining onto the good natured, high spirited and ever lengthening procession, along a hastily improvised route which took them through all the principal ground floor rooms of the house. Out of the Ballroom, into Papa's once hallowed Library, then the Drawing Room, the Morning Room, the Dining Room, out into the Hall, shaking the ancient house to its very foundations, and in the process, threatening the survival of several centuries of Crawley family history. At the rear of the tail, laughing and giggling, came all of Mama's younger grandchildren, including Kurt, seemingly none the worse for what he had been through in France, and who, along with Dermot, both of them clearly slightly tipsy, having managed to acquire from somewhere two full glasses of champagne, until summarily deprived of them by their respective fathers.

The conga wended its disorderly way outside, onto the lawn, and over towards the marquee where, sometime earlier, Danny had given a Best Man's Speech which no-one would ever forget, least of all Robert whose ears, by the time Danny had finished telling what he had to recount, were distinctly red; while for his part, as Father of the Bride, Tom's choice recollections of Saiorse as a child provoked a considerable degree of laughter and merriment all round.

Despite her advancing years, Mama, too, had proceeded to enjoy herself in style for, instead of bowing out gracefully and being chauffeured back to the Dower House at an early hour, the last time Mary had seen her mother, partnered by the eldest of her three Irish grandsons, Cora was being taught the steps to something called the _Lindy Hop._

Like his father, Danny was an excellent dancer, although Mary was given to wondering if the dance in question was quite proper; at least for someone of her mother's generation. However, when she had sought to raise the matter with Matthew, he had merely laughed at her and asked where was the harm, adding that Mama seemed to be having a wonderful time and that, after all, she was an American.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, Drawing Room, later that same evening.**

With Danny having left to drive Robert and Saiorse to wherever it was they were spending their first night together as man and wife, Cora having been chauffeured back to the Dower House, with the younger children in bed, although doubtless not asleep, and Simon in his room, the remaining adult members of the family were gathered together in the Drawing Room.

"And just where is Max?" asked Mary.

"The last time I saw him, he was with his young lady, on the terrace," said Friedrich.

"Honestly! In our day, such liberties would never have been permitted!"

"Really?"

With the memory of a long gone summer's evening back in August 1914 at the residence of the Austro-Hungarian ambassador in London, Friedrich shot Mary a questioning glance.

"Well, maybe". She smiled.

"Max certainly seems smitten. In fact, they both do! I told Edith that they've been writing back and forth and on the telephone ever since he and I arrived here at Downton".

"I expect he's proposing to her this very instant!" laughed Tom.

Mary grimaced.

"Well, Max is far too young to think about settling down. Later on maybe, if ever we return to Austria. But then of course there's his haemophilia to consider. Because, if ever Max does marry, it would be wholly irresponsible of him and his wife to ever think of having children and that being so, I suspect there are very few women would want a childless union," said Edith.

"All the same, I rather like her," said Sybil.

"Who?"  
"Claire".

"Darling, you would!" laughed Mary.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Good, sound farming stock," said Matthew with a chuckle, reaching for the dial on the radio beside him.

"Matthew! That's an awful thing to say! You make her sound like one of the heifers down at Home Farm".

"Friedrich, darling, I think perhaps you should go and find him".

"Edith, he's seventeen. Almost a man grown".

" **That's** what worries me!"

"Anyway, as I told you earlier, she was very kind to him; in fact, to both of us. What harm can come of it? She's leaving tomorrow. He won't see her again. Let them say their goodbyes".

"Ships that pass in the night!" chuckled Tom

"Please don't mention ships, at least not for a while. I've had quite enough of them!" exclaimed Edith.

"Well, she's a very pretty girl, for sure," said Tom.

"I do so wish Danny could find someone like her," sighed Sybil.

"So there's no-one special yet?" asked Mary.

"They come and they go. Although there was that girl ..."  
"Which girl?" asked Edith, trying desperately to keep her voice sounding neutral.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, earlier that same evening.**

"Danny, darling, there's something I have to tell you," said Edith, linking her arm through his and steering him away from the others.

* * *

"It was after Danny came back from Spain ... One evening, he was rather maudlin'. You remember, don't you, Tom?"

"Oh, you mean ... Darlin', that was just the whisky talking".

"What **was** her name? No, it's gone". Sybil shook her head.

 **"This is the BBC Home Service. Here is the news. It was reported from the Air Ministry earlier today that a convoy in the English Channel was attacked by enemy aircraft ..."**

"Matthew, do you have to listen to that, tonight of all nights?"  
"Well, it's not a compulsory part of my duties as the earl of Grantham, so no, I suppose not". Matthew grinned and turned off the radio.

"Thank you, darling. Well, I think I can safely say that today has been a day that none of us will ever forget!" Mary glanced round at the others seated round the Drawing Room fireplace.

"How is Pickard?" asked Edith, with obvious concern. "I never thought that when I rang the bell and he opened the door ..."

"Darling, I telephoned the hospital this evening, shortly after Robert and Saiorse left. According to the nurse on duty, he'll be up and about again in a couple of days. Apparently, there's no real harm done, although from what she told me, I understand he gave his head quite a wack when he fainted".

"I really think I should go down to the hospital tomorrow and apologise".

"That's very sweet of you. Should I warn him that you're coming?" asked Mary.

"Perhaps you should!" laughed Friedrich.

"Edith, darling, delighted as we all are to have you and Kurt back with us safe and sound, especially after the hell you've both been through, do please try and remember that, what with one thing and another, let alone the war, these days domestic staff are exceedingly difficult to find!"

Tom grinned.

"That's the story of your life, isn't it Edith?"  
"What is?"  
"Men falling at your feet!"

"A toast!" exclaimed Matthew.

"What, another one?" asked Sybil, her eyes shining, her speech slightly slurred. The champagne was starting to go to her head.

Tom smiled.

Tonight might see a reversal of roles, with it being him helping her upstairs.

He found himself remembering when they had returned here to Downton that first time, as man and wife, and the odious Larry Grey had slipped something into his drink. Whatever it had been, some kind of pill, he had to be helped from the Dining Room by both Sybil and Matthew. After all these years, the humiliation Tom had felt, when Sybil then had to undress him and put him to bed, haunted him still. However, these days, Larry Grey was in no position to slip anyone anything; a matter of a couple of months ago, like Sir Oswald Mosley, he too had been interned on account of his known Fascist views.

Everyone, including Sybil, she a trifle unsteadily, now rose to their feet.

"The Happy Couple. Robert and Saiorse!" proposed Matthew, the toast taken up by everyone else present.

There was a moment's pause.

"And, to you, Edith. Welcome home!" Matthew said softly, raising his glass to her in what was yet another obvious heartfelt salutation.

"Welcome home!" chorused everyone.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, Rose Garden, the same evening.**

Even though it was now well after nine o'clock, it was still very warm. Out of sight of the house and, they hoped, away from prying eyes and inquisitive ears, having taken off his jacket and undone his bow tie, Max leaned in to give Claire a kiss.

"Careful!" she warned, grabbing hold of him as, with his arm around her waist, in his enthusiasm, encumbered with a half empty bottle of champagne and two glasses, Max almost misjudged his footing on the stone steps leading up to the rose garden.

"Whoops! Must be the bubbly!" Max laughed; looked briefly at the label on the bottle. "Crikey! A Chateau de Mareuilsay Montebello '37! Good old Uncle Matthew!"

Claire, who had never drunk champagne before, merely smiled.

"Are you sure you're all right?"  
"I'm fine. No harm done".

"Really?"  
"Perfectly".

"So, you were telling me earlier, that when they were children, Rob and Saiorse, they never got on?"  
"That's putting it mildly".

"So what happened to change all of that?"

They had reached the lily pond where iridescent blue and green dragonflies darted hither and thither. The air was heady with the scent of both roses and honeysuckle, while from over beyond the high yew hedge came faint strains of music from the Ballroom.

Max indicated the stone bench beside the pool and spread his jacket upon it for Claire to sit on.

"Shall we?"

"Yes".

"Well, I suppose it had to do with what happened that last summer, before the war, when we were all together at La Rosière; that and the fact that my brother had just recovered from measles".

"Measles? What on earth did Kurt having had measles have to do with it?"

"Well …"

* * *

 **La Rosière, near Nantes, France, July 1939.**

With the supply of wine bottles which they had been using for target practice now all but exhausted, and with Simon at the eleventh hour having rescued Oscar, his much-loved teddy bear, from being shot to pieces and ending up in a watery grave in the moat, Danny, Robert, and Max were sitting on the parapet on the stone wall of the bridge which led across to the house. From somewhere high above them there came the unmistakeable sound of an aeroplane. Glancing skywards, Max, who had retained his boyhood interest in all things aeronautical, promptly identified the lone grey green monoplane with its red, white, and blue roundels as a Morane-Saulnier belonging to the French Air Force.

"An M. S. 406 to be precise," he announced with a grin.

For a moment, all three of them found themselves transported back several years to one never-to-be-forgotten night, spent in the Alps in the summer of 1932, to a homely farmhouse kitchen where Max, then all of nine years old, sat chatting knowledgeably to Captain Nicolas Duval, a fighter pilot with the French Air Force.

A short while later, in the guise of three happy musketeers, Danny, Rob, and Max wandered slowly into the high vaulted entrance hall of La Rosière in search of something cool to drink.

"Does that look all right to you?" Max heard his Mama ask of Aunt Sybil.

"I think so, although perhaps it might be ..."

At the sight which greeted all three of them, Danny smiled; saw his mother move to stand at the other side of the long oak table and contemplate what was obviously the object of both her and Aunt Edith's present endeavours. While Ma was accomplished in so many things, as far as Danny could remember, flower arranging was not something at which his mother excelled. Even so, on those comparatively rare occasions when Da brought home a bunch of flowers for her from Dublin, Ma was always delighted to receive them. But, as for then spending time arranging them, an earthenware pot fetched from the scullery, filled with cold water from the tap out back, and the flowers then dropped in without any further ado, always seemed to suffice. Yet, now, here was Ma helping Aunt Edith arrange a mass of roses and accompanying greenery in a large blue and white Chinese vase.

"It looks like all three of you have caught the sun," observed Ma with a smile.

The young men nodded in agreement.

"It's very, very hot out there," said Robert.

"For sure," agreed Danny; saw that his mother was now searching his face.

"What ..."

"Danny, darling, your eyes are rather red".

With this observation, his mother now gently placed the back of her hand on the forehead of her eldest son. Danny grinned; knowing how she worried about them all, submitting patiently to her ministrations. A moment later and he saw Ma frown.

"What is it?" he asked, clearly mystified. He sniffed and then suddenly sneezed.

But instead of answering him, Ma began gently feeling beneath his lower jaw while at the same time he saw her turn to Aunt Edith.

"When did you say it was Kurt went down with measles?"

"The week before you all arrived. But he's over it now. Why do you ask?"

"Danny, darling, is your throat at all sore?"  
"Why on earth do you want to know that? It's a little dry, Ma, but that's why we've come inside ... to find something to drink".

"Because, unless I'm very much mistaken, you, my lad, have measles".

"Measles? Only children get measles!" Danny laughed.

"That's usually the case. But unlike both your sister and your brothers, who had it when they were little, you never did. What about you two?" Sybil now eyed her two nephews.

"I had it when I was six or thereabouts," said Robert. "And I know Si and the girls have had it too".

"And Max had it when he was about the same age," offered Edith. "Sybil, darling, I think you're worrying unnecessarily".

"Ma, it's nothing, I tell you!"

"Well, we'll soon see. If you develop a rash".

Before the day was out, now with both a rash and temperature, feeling rather sorry for himself, Danny found himself confined to bed; his only consolation being that, everyone else had had measles already and, Ma assured him, it wouldn't last very long.

* * *

At La Rosière, the following day dawned just as hot and sunny.

Had Danny not been confined to bed, given how inseparable they were, both he and Robert would have been mooching about the grounds of La Rosière together. However, on this fine morning when Robert approached the little wooden jetty, he was not only on his own but also in time to see Saiorse in her black swimsuit setting off for the island in the rowing boat.

"I wouldn't, not if I were you. You know what Uncle Friedrich told us, about the weir".

"Well, I'm not you, so I'll thank you to mind your own bloody business!" Saiorse scowled at Robert and continued rowing away from the jetty.

"Have it your own way then!"

"I will!"

Robert turned; began to walk back through the belt of trees which here in this spot ran down almost to the water's edge. A few moments later, alerted by Saiorse's screams, he was racing back down to the jetty; saw that she had lost one of the oars and in a futile attempt to retrieve it had overbalanced, fallen into the water, was even now drifting dangerously towards the weir and the main channel of the river.

Without a moment's thought for his own safety, running like the wind, Robert raced out along the jetty and dived fully clothed headlong into the water, swimming for Saiorse just as fast as he could. Although he himself was a good swimmer, the current was strong, and had it not been for the presence of an overhanging branch, along with the now empty skiff, it is likely that both of them would have been swept over the weir, and drowned.

* * *

"You're an absolute idiot! You could have drowned!"  
"I could say the same about you!"  
Saiorse threw him her towel.

"Here, you'll catch your death!"

"Do you really care if I do?"

"No, not a bit. Apart from all the trouble it would cause. Now, get out of those wet clothes, for sure!"

Robert did as he was bidden, kicking off his canvas shoes while Saiorse's nimble fingers helped him make short work of the buttons of his shirt.

"I can manage, thank you".

"Those too!" she said ignoring his protest and pointing to his shorts. A moment later, standing before her in nothing but his underpants, Robert began briskly rubbing himself dry with Saiorse's bathing towel.

* * *

"Why ... why do you hate me so much?" he asked a short while later, as they sat together on the jetty in the warm sunshine, waiting for his clothes to dry. Idly, Robert skimmed a pebble into the water.

"I don't!"  
"Yes, you do".

At that, Saiorse turned her head away. Sat in her swimsuit, her arms clasped about her, staring somewhere into the middle distance, she gazed silently out over the grey waters of the Loire.

The silence lengthened.

"Because ... because ... you're always with Danny," she said at last. She began to chew on her lower lip. "It's like ... like I don't even exist! There! I've said it! So, now you know!"

* * *

"Have you any idea?"  
"About what?" she asked, not even deigning to look at him for fear that he would see the tears in her eyes.

"What it is you do to me," he said softly.

Turning her head, she caught sight of the growing erection within his underpants.

"I think I do," she said.

"No idea at all," Robert repeated. Too late, he became aware of her eyes upon him; realised what she had seen. He blushed.

"I think I have," she said huskily.

"Saiorse!" he moaned and reached for her.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, Rose Garden, evening,** **20th July 1940.**

"To us," proposed Max, raising his glass.

"To us!" echoed Claire with a laugh.

"Happy?"

"Yes!"

"Really?"  
"Yes! Of course. Oh, this is heavenly. It's so peaceful here. One could almost believe that there wasn't a war". Claire looked up at the darkening blue of the sky where now, almost as if to contradict her, at that very moment, far above them, there soared a British fighter, in its wake leaving a white vapour trail.

"Mind you, the rose garden at Rosenberg is far more beautiful. But then I suppose I'm biased. Did I ever tell you that from it you can see the Alps?"

"Yes, you did. It sounds lovely".

"One day, I should very much like to show it to you".

"I like your mother," said Claire brightly sipping her champagne once again. "And your father too".

"I'm very glad to hear it".

"Your brother, Kurt's a plucky little chap. My God, when I think what he and his mother must both have gone through over there in France! And all the while believing you and your father ..."

Gravely, Max nodded his head.

"Mama's always been very … _einfallsreich_ ... I'm not sure of the word in English. She knows ... knows what to do ... when things go wrong".

"Capable," offered Claire, now resting her head gently on his shoulder.

"Just so!" Max laughed. "Even so, I expect there's a great deal that she hasn't told us".

"Your Uncle Matthew's charming and your Uncle Tom's great fun. His wife's very sweet".

"Aunt Sybil. Yes, she is. Very".

"She asked me to tell her all about the London School of Medicine, when it was I decided I wanted to become a doctor. That sort of thing. But, as for your Aunt Mary, she was livid when I caught Saiorse's bouquet. And then asking me what time my train was on Sunday. In fact, I'm only surprised that she didn't offer to drive me down to the station herself!"

Max laughed.

"Aunt Mary can't even drive. She doesn't know how!"

"All the same, I think she'd far rather that we'd never even met!"

"That's silly. Anyway, don't worry about my Aunt Mary. She's like your father ... her bark is far worse than her bite!" .

"Perhaps," Claire said evenly.

Max knew that it was now or never. A moment later, having set down his glass on the seat, and before Claire realised what it was that he was doing, Max had slipped to one knee.

"Claire, will you marry me?" He gazed up at her, searching her face.

"Max ... I ..." Looking down at him, from his expression, she realised that he was in earnest.

"I know how I feel about you, Claire, and I think you feel the same way about me". Max rose to his feet, sat beside her once more, slipping his arm about her shoulders.

"And ... if I do ... what would your parents say? You, the son of an Austrian lord, marrying a English tenant farmer's daughter?"

"Papa's not a lord. And even if he was, they'd both be delighted".

"You really think so?"

Max nodded.

"Look, I know they're both very protective of me but they'll come round. I know they will".

"Maybe. But ... all of this ..." Spreading her hands wide, Claire indicated their surroundings. "Max, this isn't me. And, besides, we haven't known each other long".

"Love's not about that," he said quietly.

"No, you're right. It isn't".

"Will you at least promise me that you'll think about it?"

"Of course". Claire nodded her head.

"You will?"

"I've just said so, silly, haven't I?" She laughed as Max enfolded her in his arms covering her face with kisses. "Only ..."

"Only what?" He drew back.

"I think it's best we don't say anything, either to your parents ... or my Dad ... until we've decided what we're going to do".

"All right, if that's what you want".

Thereafter, as the sky continued to darken, with their arms around each other, they sat together in companionable silence, watching the Mead Moon as it rose slowly over Downton.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, by the lake, earlier the same evening.**

Danny was absolutely stunned.

Having taken off his jacket, with his waistcoat unbuttoned, his shirt sleeves rolled up, smoking a cigarette, his head in his hands, Danny sat looking down at the ground beneath his feet, idly making circles in the dust with the toe of his right shoe. Beside him, seated on the wooden bench, Edith wondered if the silence would ever end, if her nephew was hoping secretly that either the lake or else the ground might swallow him up whole, and thus end his present torment. At length, Danny dropped the butt of the cigarette on the ground; stubbed it out savagely with his heel. Ever so slowly, he raised his head and looked directly at his aunt.

"Whatever must you think of me?" he gasped.

Edith smiled at him reassuringly; placed her arm comfortingly around his shoulders.

"I didn't know you smoked".  
"I don't! Leastways, not as a rule. But, after what you've just told me, I needed a fag. Here, want one?". Danny fumbled in the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a packet of Woodbines. "Please don't tell Ma, otherwise I'll never hear the end of it!"

"No, thank you. I don't. And, no, I won't say a word to your Ma. As to what I think of you? Nothing unpleasant, I assure you. Did you really think I would? Danny, darling, I've known you all your life, remember? You're a fine young man, a credit to both your parents".

"I don't think that at this precise moment, if Da and Ma knew about Carmen and the baby, they would agree with you, for sure".

"Darling, of course they would".

"Really?"  
"Yes, really. Why on earth do you think otherwise?"  
"Well, they weren't exactly over the moon about Rob and Saiorse for sure. At least not to begin with. Especially Ma. And she still blames the two of them for what happened to Da; for his heart attack. Even though he tries to insist that's not what it was. Anyway, while he was down there in the Cottage Hospital, Ma gave them both a right telling off! I heard her doing it. Going at them hammer and tongs she was for sure!. Of course, to be fair, I know she was very upset about Da, but, when I think about it, I don't think I've ever heard her so angry. Afterwards, when I told him, what had happened, Da said that while he adores her, when Ma gets angry, really angry, it's time to take cover. Even he beats a hasty retreat! Anyway, after Ma had calmed down, when she'd come back up here to the house, for what it's worth, Rob told me for sure that he'd sooner deal with a whole pack of German fighters than be on the receiving end of Ma's anger ever again. Jaysus! I love Ma more than I can say, but have you ever heard her, when she's on the warpath? Why, she could shot blast the keel of the Queen Mary with that tongue of hers!"

Edith laughed out loud at the image Danny had conjured.

"I don't doubt that for an instant! Darling, you know just as well as I do that your Ma's the sweetest thing on God's earth. When we were children growing up here at Downton, she was forever trying to keep the peace between your Aunt Mary and myself. you probably know that we never got on!" Edith flashed her nephew a knowing smile. "But even as a little girl, your Ma always had a temper. Not that there was ever any malice in her. A flash in the pan. Gone in a moment. Over and done with. Danny, darling, don't take all of this upon yourself. These things happen. And while I have no intention whatsoever of instructing you in the facts of life, after all I think that particular horse has well and truly bolted, do you remember what I told you all those years ago, on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, about rendering unto Caesar?"

"Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's and unto God the things that are God's? Yes, you see, I was paying attention". Danny chuckled and his aunt laughed, both of them remembering back to that never-to-be-forgotten day, all those years ago, on the bridge in Florence, with the sunlight sparkling on the waters of the Arno.

"Obviously. Well, bearing that in mind, it takes two people to make a baby. Now, from talking to Carmen, it's as clear as day that she loves you very much and from what you've told me this evening, you feel the same way about her".

In the fading light, she saw him blush to the roots of his hair; reminding her instantly of Tom. Then Danny nodded his head.

"For sure! And the little boy ... I mean my son ... Daniel? Forgive me, but it takes a bit of getting used to!" Danny now ducked his head and grinned at his aunt in a way that once again reminded her so much of his dearly loved father.

"I'm sure it does!" Edith smiled. "He's the splitting image of you. Slightly darker in his complexion, mind, but then I suppose he gets that from his mother".

Danny nodded once again.

"Aunt Edith?"  
"What is it?"  
"Look, I have to drive Rob and Saiorse over to ..." He paused, then smiled. "Over to where they're staying tonight. Will you do something for me, please?"  
"If I can. What is it?"

* * *

 **Pope's Quay, Dublin, Ireland, night, 22nd July 1940.**

On board the steamer, the night was proving to be uncomfortably warm. In the narrow bunk Carmen turned fitfully in her sleep, as, yet again she endured the same nightmare, as vivid in its intensity, as it was unpleasant, of wave upon wave of bombers of the German Condor Legion swooping low, raining down death and destruction upon the defenceless, helpless citizens of Guernica. The scene shifted and once more she was witness to Nationalist soldiers of the Falange dragging her uncle into the sunlit square before his house in Bilbao before bayoneting him to death in front of his wife and two small children.

Then, in the very next instant, Carmen herself was wide awake and listening intently. Just above her head, out on deck, she heard furtive footsteps. Fumbling beneath her pillow, the tips of her fingers closed on the stock of the Mauser. A moment later, footsteps sounded on the steps outside the cabin. Now sitting up, Carmen pointed the pistol directly at the door.

¿Quien esta ahí?" she demanded.

There was no reply.

The door began to open.

Releasing the safety catch, Carmen squeezed hard on the trigger; the sound of the single shot masked by a lorry backfiring on the quay and the gaggle of noisy regulars stumbling out of Murphy's Bar.

* * *

 **Downton Railway Station, Yorkshire, England, 21st July 1940.**

It is a truism that when one wishes it to be running late, the train one is waiting for arrives precisely on time. This morning, this again proved to be so as, in the distance towards Ellerbeck, a whistle now sounded and a plume of steam showed white against the backdrop of blue grey hills.

"Claire, look at me, please".

They were standing facing each other on the platform in the sunshine, he with his hands resting lightly on her shoulders, she looking down at the ground, her suitcase beside her.

"But what about your family, Rosenberg ..."

In a swirl of steam and smoke, with brakes squealing, the train drew in alongside them.

"None of that matters to me, at least not as much as you and your happiness".

Doors opened and closed.

"Max, are you really sure?"

Unobserved by both of them, at the far end of the platform, the guard showed a green flag.

Max smiled; held out his hand to her.

"I am. And, in case you've forgotten, you still haven't answered my question".

"'ere, you gettin' on this train or not?" interrupted the irascible, elderly porter perspiring profusely.

"Yes".

Max opened the door and helped Claire up into the carriage.

"No, I haven't forgotten," she said, now leaning through the open window of the door, her eyes fixed firmly on his face as Max stood gazing up at her from the platform.

The engine tooted impatiently.

"Then, will you marry me, Claire?"

Slowly, the train began to move out of the station.

The moment had come. Seeing the way Max was looking at her, the thought of not seeing him again, thinking just how right it all seemed, it was in this very instant, Claire had her answer; something which, in all the time they had together, she never once regretted.

"Yes!"

Breaking into the broadest of smiles, Max grabbed for the brass handle of the carriage door and, a moment later, having wrenched it open, he had clambered up into the compartment.

"'ere you bloody idiot! That's against regulations, that is!" yelled the elderly porter. Answer came there none but, as the train puffed out of the station, began to gather speed, before it rounded the curve and disappeared out of sight altogether, the old porter at least had the satisfaction of seeing the swinging door at last slam shut.

Aboard the train, having pulled the door closed behind him, Max sank down on the seat beside her.

"What on earth are you doing?" asked Claire aghast.

"What do you think? I'm coming with you," Max said and pulled her to him.

* * *

 **Pope's Quay, Dublin, Ireland, early morning, 23rd July 1940.**

With a cargo of Irish slates, bound for Funchal on the Portuguese island of Madeira, the Pedro sailed at first light.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

There are several recordings of _In the Mood_ , the most famous of which is that made at the RCA Studios in New York on 1 August 1939, and which included Glenn Miller as one of the performing artists.

For Violet's involvement with Captain Alexei Sheremetev, see "Reunion".

For what happened in the Alps in the summer of 1932, see "The Rome Express".

"Mead Moon" is an old country name given to the full moon in July.

The bombing of the Basque town of Guernica was one of the worst of the many atrocities committed, by both sides, during the Spanish Civil War.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Fortunes Of War

 **England, July 1940.**

If only for a short while, both Robert and Saiorse, blissfully happy, ensconced at a remote inn in the Yorkshire Dales for what turned out to be an all too brief honeymoon, let alone Max and Claire sitting together on a summer's evening in the Rose Garden at Downton, could make themselves believe that the war was but a passing nightmare. However, in reality, the RAF's fight in the skies over London and southern England, against the might of the Luftwaffe, continued unabated.

Indeed, on the very same day that Robert and Saiorse were married and Max proposed to Claire, in the English Channel, off Dover, a large convoy was attacked by German bombers and fighters. In the ensuing dogfight, two Hurricanes were lost and four damaged; while on the same day in a fierce encounter between fifty Me109s and Me110s and a force of some twenty four Hurricanes and Spitfires, the RAF lost three aircraft and the Luftwaffe nine. And in all these encounters there was the inevitable human cost in young lives, whether Allied or German, and which were snuffed out in an instant.

Not that any of them could have known it at the time, but the wedding of Robert and Saiorse was the very last occasion at which all members of the extended family of the Bransons, the Crawleys, and the Schönborns would be together for a very long while. Shortly, they were to be torn asunder by the claims of both love and the demands of war. And, when next they were all assembled, those who had survived what was coming would find themselves in a world changed forever ftrom what had gone before.

* * *

 **Railway Station, Ripon, Yorkshire, 21st July, 1940.**

It was in Ripon, in the shadow of the cathedral, or to be more precise, beneath the glass canopy of the southbound platform of the railway station, where Claire had to change trains to catch her connection to Harrogate, that for the two lovers and would-be runaways, common sense at last prevailed. Both Max and Claire were realists and, despite their desire to spend the rest of their lives together, they were old enough to know that love alone would not serve to put food on the table or pay the rent. That, with the likelihood of them meeting steadfast parental opposition to what it was they intended, for them to marry they would have to be able stand on their own two feet and that required that they make adequate plans for their future. For, there was no escaping the fact that there were some harsh realities which they now had to face.

Firstly, what with the war, given that he was an enemy alien, let alone the parlous state of his health, there was little chance of Max ever obtaining any kind of a job. Then there was Claire's heartfelt desire to study medicine up in London and become a doctor, something which Max insisted she must, at all costs, continue to pursue. While Claire had a small legacy from a great aunt and Max a monthly allowance from his parents, there was no doubt that the latter would cease immediately if, as Max expected when he broached the matter with them, Papa and Mama refused him permission to marry, and he then insisted on going against their wishes. Equally, despite her assertion that she could wrap him round her little finger, Claire was not at all sure how her own father would react to the idea of an Austrian son-in-law, let alone one from the ranks of the aristocracy, and who, to all intents and purposes, could not even work for a living and earn his daily bread.

So, while neither of them liked deceit, both Max and Claire were agreed that, for the present, they should say nothing of their intentions to anyone, least of all Max's parents and Claire's father until matters could be properly arranged. In the meantime, they both promised each other that they would continue to write and talk on the telephone. Then, having made their sad farewells on the platform at Ripon station, it was with a heavy heart that Max watched Claire's train steam away southwards, wondering, while he awaited the next service back to Downton, if he would ever see her again.

* * *

 **West Riding Constabulary, Police Station, Clifford Street, York, 18th July 1940.**

"So, let me get this straight. You're saying Mr. Barrow wasn't the kind of gent to go and commit suicide. How can you be so sure?" Pursing his lips, Inspector Craddock sat back and considered carefully the man now sitting opposite him: a sergeant with the 15 Field Squadron of the Royal Engineers based at Ripon Military Camp.

"Inspector, knowing him as I did, I can say that he wasn't the sort of chap to take his own life".

"Maybe but all the evidence points to the fact that he did. If he didn't, we need proof of that. Just exactly how well did you know him?"

"Let's just say I knew him".

"You'll have to do a lot better than that, Sergeant Skinner".

"Well ..."

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, evening, 21st July 1940.**

Having returned to Downton, save for the fact, as Sybil herself remarked in passing the very same evening, after dinner, when Max had gone off to play billiards with Simon, he seemed somewhat down, no-one was any the wiser as to what it was that had so nearly come to pass. Indeed, as far as the family was concerned a matter now arose which was of far greater concern than Max having a touch of the blues.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, evening, 22nd July 1940.**

When it became known that Danny had fathered a child on a girl he had met briefly in Spain during the Civil War, that she was now in Dublin, and that Danny was hot footing his way to see both her and his young son, Tom and Sybil had been at first disbelieving and then stunned. Somewhat surprisingly, of the two of them, it had been Sybil who had taken the news the more badly.

It had been after dinner, with Cora not yet returned to the Dower House and therefore still at the abbey, and before Matthew had a chance to suggest to Tom that they play a frame of billiards, as they all drifted slowly across the Hall towards the Drawing Room to have coffee, that with Edith earlier this evening having told her privately about Carmen and the child, Sybil had whispered to Tom that they should go upstairs. At that he had given his wife his slow, lop-sided grin, believing that he knew the reason for her suggestion.

While Tom would have been the first to admit that there was no especial rhythm to their love-making and that, with both of them working and with four growing children, they took their opportunities to do so wherever they arose. Even so, when they were staying here at the abbey, they always took care to observe propriety; as a result of which Tom could not recall Sybil ever having been quite so blatant about her need of him. Nonetheless, at the prospect of a delightful evening's bed sport, feeling an immediate stirring in his groin, Tom's grin had broadened into a smug smile. It was only when they reached the foot of the main staircase where, in his eagerness to begin, he had squeezed Sybil's amply proportioned rump, that his anticipation had been completely dashed when, quite unexpectedly, she had batted his hand away.

"And you can take that silly grin off your face! **That's** not why I suggested we go upstairs. There's something I need to tell you," snapped Sybil.

"You're not ... What I mean is ... we've been careful, haven't we?"

After Dermot had been born, both of them had agreed that they would have no more children and thereafter they had, as far as Tom was aware, taken all necessary precautions they could, to avoid Sybil falling pregnant.

"No, I'm not! If only it was that simple!" Sybil shook her head in exasperation.

"What then? You're not ... ill?"

Seeing the naked fear in his eyes, Sybil relented somewhat. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him soundly.

"No, darling. Nobody's ill and nobody's died. No worries on either count".

"So, what on earth is it?"  
"Wait until we get upstairs. Then I'll tell you".

* * *

A short while later, downstairs in the Drawing Room, when everyone else had learned of what had happened, once again, Sybil gave free rein both to her emotions and her feelings.

"How could Danny have been so deceitful? How could he do this? To himself? To us? To saddle himself with the responsibility of a child? Assuming of course that it is his!"

For a moment no-one else said anything.

Of them all, for her part, Cora sat gazing at the carpet reflecting on the irony of the present situation. Years ago, when they had first fallen in love, neither Sybil, nor indeed Tom, had been exactly honest. And Cora found herself thinking back to the confrontation which had taken place here in this very same room when Tom and Sybil had announced their engagement, said that they intended to marry, would live and work in Dublin and there raise a family. Now as Cora raise her head and glanced round at them all, save for the absence of both Robert and Lavinia, and the presence of Friedrich, it was the very same people who had been here back in 1919.

A lifetime ago.

Suddenly Cora felt everyone of her advancing years; found herself bone weary. It was time she left. Slowly she rose to her feet. Making her excuses, saying that she realised they all had things to discuss, Cora asked if one of them would be so good as to telephone for the motor so that she could return to the Dower House.

* * *

After Cora had left, as he had done upstairs in the privacy of their own bedroom, so too down here in the Drawing Room, trying to pour oil on troubled waters, Tom continued to be rather more sanguine about the whole affair.

"Darlin', as I told yous, Danny's a young man. It's what young men do. At least give him credit for shouldering his responsibilities rather than attempting to deny them and just walk away".

Friedrich nodded.

"Yes, I agree with you, Tom. Not that, if all of this is true, I would have expected any the less of Danny. He's a very fine young man. And I know too that Max thinks the world of him".

"Thank you for that".

Tom smiled, and then turned to Sybil.

"As to the how of it, well, darlin' I would have thought that was rather obvious for sure!"

His eyes alight with mischief, Tom grinned, but then seeing the look on Sybil's face, thought better of what it was he had been about to say. Even though he had only intended to try and lighten the mood somewhat, he realised that he had blundered. Now was clearly not the time for any attempt at levity.

"Sybil, Tom's right," said Matthew quietly.

His sister-in-law shook her head in disbelief. For a moment Sybil fell silent but then, almost immediately, she returned to the fray.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but as far as I recall there were any number of young men, both from Ireland and from this country, who went over to Spain to help in the fight against the Fascists. How can this girl ... what was her name again, Edith?"  
"Carmen," said Edith.

"Carmen! Really! How very appropriate! And clearly possessed no doubt of the same lack of morals as her operatic namesake!"  
"Sybil!" exclaimed Mary who, somewhat surprisingly, so far had not ventured to express an opinion on the matter now under discussion but her youngest sister was having none of it; instead she waved Mary into silence.

"How does she know that Danny is the father? Isn't it rather more likely that she was already expecting a child? And then, all unsuspecting, along comes Danny, a good looking, personable young man, who she entices into her bed!"

"Honestly Sybil, you're making the poor girl sound like some kind of Spanish Mata Hari!"  
" **Poor girl**!" scoffed Sybil. "Tom, darling, in case it has escaped your attention, this is our son we're talking about".

"No, darlin', it hasn't," he said softly.

"It's her! Manipulating him. Danny's always been soft where girls are concerned, but this ... this is beyond belief!"  
"Sybil, darling, you're clutching at straws. I've seen him, remember? There's no doubting that the little boy is Danny's child," said Edith quietly.

"A passing resemblance and you're certain that the child is Danny's?"  
"It's rather more than just a passing resemblance. He's the image of Danny. In fact, he looks a lot like Tom".

"So what exactly does Danny intend to do? Did he tell you that?"  
"He didn't say, other than to ask me to tell you what I have, and for you not to worry. That he was going back to Ireland as quickly as he could, to see both Carmen and his son, before the Pedro sailed. I'm sure he'll be there in Dublin when you and the boys get back".

"Edith, I wish I could believe you".

"Sybil, darling, of course he will. Danny's not going to do anything foolish".

"I wonder, would you be so calm about all of this if it was Max we were talking about?"  
" **Max**? Oh, Sybil, really! Darling, in case you've forgotten, Max is several years younger than Danny and where girls are concerned, he's quite an innocent".

"Aren't you forgetting the apparent charms of the delightful Miss Barton?" asked Mary wrily.

"No, not at all". Edith's eyes narrowed. "Besides, in case **you've** forgotten, Claire Barton travelled back down to Devonshire yesterday and, as Friedrich said, they won't be seeing each other again".

* * *

At the very same time the exchange about Danny was taking place in the Drawing Room, upstairs, lying on his back on his bed, his hands clasped behind his head, Max was presently contemplating his future. With his eyes closed he could make believe Claire was with him still; could feel her soft lips pressed against his own, the tip of her tongue darting, gently probing, seeking to deepen their kiss, could hear her voice, the gaiety of her laughter, feel her hand resting in his own.

"Claire!" he groaned.

At length, when his imaginings became rather too vivid, unable to see how matters could be resolved so that they could be together, rolling over, in an attempt to stifle his sobs, Max buried his face in his pillow.

The Germans, too, have a phrase for it:

"Die dunkelste Stunde ist kurz vor der Dämmerung".

Or, in English:

"The darkest hour is just before dawn".

And so it proved to be, for, when neither Max nor Claire could see a way forward, help was to come to them, and from the most unexpected quarter.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, afternoon, 23rd July 1940.**

"So, now, you know everything there is to tell".

At last, Edith fell silent; her hands lay folded neatly, resting in her lap. In front of them on the sun-drenched grass young Kurt gambolled with Hope in the warm sunshine while, some distance off, in the shade of an old oak tree, resting his back against the gnarled trunk, staring into the distance towards Whetstone Ridge, Max sat cross-legged on the ground.

Friedrich smiled; patted her knee.

"Thank you, for telling me. However, knowing you as I do, I wouldn't have expected any less of you. All the same, given what you've both been through, I'm very, very proud of you ... of ... both of you". Smiling, he patted her knee.

Edith nodded in the direction of Kurt.

"Given that he's now recovered his voice, he seems remarkably unscathed. Over there in France, then on the steamer from Spain, I'd half begun to fear that he would never speak again".

"Indeed. But then, I suppose it's hardly surprising he's come through it all ... how do you say it in English? Leicht schaffen?"  
"With flying colours!"  
"Exactly. Just so. His father may be a Schönborn, but his mother's a true Crawley. An excellent combination!"

Edith laughed.

"He really enjoyed being back in the saddle on Starlight this morning and he 's grown to love Hope just as much as darling Max did dear little Fritz!"

"Indeed".

Shading her eyes from the glare of the sun, now catching sight of Max sitting beneath the oak tree, Edith grew serious.

"Friedrich, tell me something. Do you think darling Max is quite himself?"  
"Yes, as far as I know. Why do you ask?"  
"After Kurt and I returned from France, it was as if nothing between us had changed. But these last few days, he seems to have become so distant. Staying in his room, going off for walks on his own ..."

"I shouldn't worry too much. With Robert now married, Danny disappeared off to God knows where, and with Miss Barton having gone back to Devonshire, I suppose it's only to be expected that he feels somewhat ... _deprimiert_. Mind you, when I suggested to Mary that she invite the young lady up here, I really thought it was for the best".

"Darling, you did what you believed to be right for him at the time". Her husband shook his head.

"All the same, I'm not at all sure that it was".

"Even so, if you don't mind, I think I'll go and talk to him". Edith rose from her seat. Then, pausing briefly to fondle Kurt's head, she walked purposefully across the grass over to where Max was still sitting gazing into space.

* * *

Friedrich had been mistaken.

Max was not at all down in the dumps. In fact, he had been sitting quietly, contemplating his future life with Claire.

* * *

At his mother's approach, Max raised his head and then, on seeing who it was, he smiled. Edith did too. While she would readily have admitted to being prejudiced in the matter, there was no denying the fact that Max, who as a boy had been so very handsome, had grown into a fine looking young man. Were it not for his haemophilia, at sometime in the future he would have made an excellent catch for somebody's daughter. For a moment Edith's eyes misted at what could never be. Recovering herself, she offered her eldest son her arm.

"You're not too grown to go for a walk with your old Mama, are you?" she asked; was relieved, indeed ridiculously so, when she saw Max shake his head.

"Of course not, Mama". Max grinned. Scrambling hastily to his feet, he clasped her right hand, then brought it quickly to his lips in a perfectly executed baisse-main. For a moment, their eyes met. Then, having linked arms, they set off slowly back towards the house.

"Now tell me, my darling ..."

"Tell you what?"

"Everything".

" **Everything**?" asked Max nervously.

His mother eyed him curiously.

"I mean about what happened down there in Devonshire, how you and Papa managed to meet up with Danny ... with Miss Barton ..."

"Oh, that ..."

As a child Max had never been a very good liar; his face always betrayed him. Now, while he did his very best to sound dismissive, in his mind's eye he was seeing Claire as he had first seen her; standing there on the station platform in the bright sunshine.

"Yes, **that** ," said Edith who now, as she caught sight of his face realised that she had been mistaken. Max was head over heels in love with this girl.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, late July 1940.**

A matter of days after Robert and Saiorse returned to the abbey from their honeymoon, with Robert still awaiting a medical before he could return to active service and, now that the hospital in Leeds knew of her pregnancy, with Saiorse living here at the abbey, at least until the baby was born, with Tom at last deemed well enough to travel home to Dublin, along with Sybil, Bobby and young Dermot, after a series of tearful farewells, not knowing when, if ever, they would all be together again, the Bransons sailed from Holyhead bound for Ireland on board the TSS. Hibernia.

After an uneventful voyage across the Irish Sea, precisely on schedule, the Hibernia steamed into the harbour at Dun Laoghaire, formerly Kingstown. Yet, despite the fact that he had said he would be on the quayside to meet them, of Danny there was no sign whatsoever. Subsequent enquiries of the port authorities in Dublin confirmed that the SS. Pedro had sailed for Funchal, the capital of the island of Madeira, on 23rd July.

And then, just before the officers of the Garda arrived, Padraig turned up on the doorstep of the house in Idrone Terrace with the dreadful news that the body of a dark haired young man, who had been shot through the head, had been fished out of the Liffey river, close to the Customs House.

* * *

 **Grantham Arms, Downton, Yorkshire, 4th August 1940.**

"Have Uncle Matthew and Aunt Mary heard from Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil?" asked Max before taking a sip of his beer.

"You mean, has anything further been heard of Danny? No, nothing. Not since the telegram that arrived here for Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil just before they returned to Dublin What's become of him ..." Rob spread his hands, palms uppermost.

"But it's true ... about Danny being a father?"

"True enough. Not that he'd have known a thing about it, if your mother hadn't chanced to meet the girl on that steamer out of San Sebastian".

"Mama said it was kis ..." Max paused groping for the word his mother had used.

"Kismet?"

"Yes, that was it".

"Did she now? Fate. Written in the stars, eh?" laughed Rob.

Max grinned.

"Granny Cora called it happenstance. Mmm, this tastes good!"

Robert smiled.

"Sam Smiths. Brewed in Tadcaster. Yorkshire's finest. But don't tell Mama I said so. She thinks drinking beer is terribly middle class".

"When do you have to go back?"

"In the next few days, now that I've been passed fit to return to active service. It's not a moment too soon. We need every pilot we have".

Continuing to sip their beer, they sat together companionably in the snug of the Grantham Arms, while from the other side of the glass and wood partition there came the subdued murmur of voices, interspersed with the occasional cheer.

Max looked up.

"Darts," explained Robert helpfully.

Max nodded his head in understanding, recalling what Danny had told him of the game, which in both England and Ireland was something of an obsession. At length, Robert set down his empty tankard.

"Now, as to the matter in hand. Since you confided in me, how it was that things stood between you and Claire, Saiorse and I have talked it all over and after a little bit of persuasion on my part, we're both agreed about this. Not that she needed much persuading, given how fond she was of you when we were children".

So saying, Robert took out his wallet, taking from it what appeared to be a folded piece of paper which he pressed into the palm of Max's right hand. On opening it, Max was stunned beyond measure, disbelieving completely of what it was he had been given. For a moment, he sat gazing silently at what he now held in his hand: a cheque written in his favour, for some two hundred pounds, drawn on Robert's own account with the Westminster Bank in York.

"I ... I don't understand".

"Call it a wedding present".

Max shook his head.

"Rob, I can't accept this". Max made to hand back the cheque which Robert had pressed firmly into his palm.

With a smile and a wave of his hand, Robert brushed aside his Austrian cousin's protests.

"Aren't you forgetting the promise the three of us made each other when we were boys, all those years ago, in the Alps, on board the Rome Express?"

Max looked questioningly at his cousin. Then with remembrance swiftly dawning, a slow smile now spread across his face and he nodded his head.

" _Tous pour un et un pour tous_. _All for one and one for all_. But that was just foolish nonsense. I never expected ... What I mean is ... I didn't imagine for a moment that ..."

Robert nodded towards the cheque.

"That's part of the money Papa and Mama gave me, to draw on when I went up to Oxford. Well, for the time being at least, that's all gone by the board. I don't need it. Not now. Perhaps never. But **you** do. It gives you and Claire the means to marry. Look on it as a wedding present to the two of you, from Saiorse and I. But, if it salves your conscience, then consider it a loan, to be repaid as and when you are able to do so".

Max grasped Rob firmly by the hand.

"I don't know what to say ..." he began.

"Then say nothing".

"There is something else ..."

"Which is?"  
"If I accept this, as a loan, mind, would you do us both the honour of being my Best Man?"  
"I'd be delighted, old chap".

Max grinned.

"Thank you. The one thing in all of this that I regret, apart from hurting Papa and Mama, is that Danny can't be here too".

Robert nodded.

"Agreed but given what's happened, that can't be helped. Now, have you given any thought as to precisely where it is you and Claire are going to be married? Obviously it can't be here".

Max nodded; shook his head.

"No, it can't".

"So ..."

"Well, we've been thinking about that and what we've decided is that ..."

* * *

 **Parish** **Church of All Hallows-by-the-Tower, London, 14th September 1940**.

Seemingly far removed from the daily hustle and bustle of London, although in reality it lay only a whisper away beyond the stone walls of the church, in the lengthening shadows of an early autumn afternoon, in the quiet of the side-chapel, they stood before the altar rail to make their marriage vows. Apart from Robert, smart in his uniform of a Flight Lieutenant to which rank he had just been promoted, save for the elderly curate and the equally ancient verger, there was no-one else in attendance.

Perhaps it was something to do with his eyesight, but the curate thought that both of them appeared very young to be getting married. But then, who was he to judge? With all that was happening these days, with lives being torn apart, being snuffed out in an instant, if two young people wanted to get married, then he supposed it made good sense for them to get on with things and by the looks these two were exchanging they were both very much in love.

The curate smiled benignly.

"Well, if the two of you are quite ready?"

Max and Claire nodded their heads.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God and ..."

"I, Maximilian Friedrich von Schönborn, take thee Claire Frances Barton to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth".

"I, Claire Frances Barton take thee Maximilian Friedrich von Schönborn to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.

Both Claire and Max were agreed that, for the time being, none of Robert's money should be used on buying a wedding ring. Instead, when the time came, from off the little finger of his right hand, Max slipped the signet engraved with the arms of Schönborn. A present from his parents, it had been given to him on his sixteenth birthday, a lifetime ago, or so that seemed, made for someone who no longer existed; a boy from a vanished world. Smiling at her, Max slipped the ring gently onto the fourth finger of Claire's left hand. It proved to be a perfect fit. Not that there was any doubt that it would be: they had taken the precaution of ensuring beforehand that it did.

As he placed the ring on Claire's finger, Max repeated the words spoken by the curate.

"With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen".

The curate nodded and smiled at the two of them.

"Forasmuch as Max and Claire have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be man and wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen".

With no-one else present in the church when Max and Claire were exchanging their vows, it fell to both Robert and the old verger to act as witnesses. Two passers-by, a man and a woman who came into the church just as the service was concluded, wished the young couple well.

* * *

A short while later, married, elated, and very, very happy, arm in arm, Max and Claire stepped outside All Hallows. Then, along with Robert, the three of them caught the next bus into town where they made their way over to the Lyons Corner House on the Strand just off Trafalgar Square for a bite to eat. Thereafter, Rob said his goodbyes before making his way to Victoria Station to catch a train southwards to return to his squadron at Biggin Hill in Kent, none of them knowing if they would ever see each other again.

Wanting to be home and inside before nightfall in case there was yet another air raid, having taken the District Line back to their cheap lodgings on Old Montagu Street, not far from the closed down Pavilion Theatre in Whitechapel in the East End of London, it was while they were walking arm in arm down Whitechapel Road that, suddenly, Claire turned her head. A minute later and she had brought both of them to an abrupt stop.

"What is it?" asked Max.

"Those two people, over there on the pavement, by the street lamp, aren't they ... No, they can't be".

"Can't be what?"

Claire shook her head.  
"For a moment I thought they were the two who came into the church just after we were married".

Max glanced cursorily in the direction of the other couple who also had stopped and were standing still on the opposite pavement.

"Hardly. After all, what would they be doing here in Whitechapel?"

Claire saw Max wince. He reached down and rubbed his knee.

"Are you ..."

"It's nothing".

* * *

Max had said that he was fine but for her part, Claire was not convinced; the more so since just the other week he had begun to experience a persistent, nagging pain in his left knee which had steadily worsened and then had kept him confined to bed for a couple of days with a high temperature. While he insisted that it was nothing to worry about, Max looked ashen and Claire wondered if all of the day's walking had been too much for him.

From what she had read about it, Claire knew that haemophilia was capricious. Days, weeks, even months, could pass without an attack, and the sufferer would be lulled willingly into the belief that all would continue to be well. But, it was ever a false dawn, for as sure as night followed day, in due course, there would come another episode of bleeding; whether as the result of injury or simply arising spontaneously, a haemorrhage in one of the internal organs or joints of the body. And with it, the nightmare would begin. Nonetheless, tonight, of all nights, Claire did her very best to mask her fears and went along with Max's suggestion that they have a quick celebratory drink in the Black Bull Public House on Whitechapel Road.

Thereafter, scarcely had they set foot inside the shabby second floor flat, with, despite Claire's protests, Max insisting that he carried her over the threshold, than once again the air raid sirens commenced their discordant, mournful wail as searchlights lit up the night sky, their pale beams crossing and re-crossing the velvet blackness in skeins of white light. Moments later, there came the thunderous crump of artillery, as batteries of anti-aircraft guns opened up with a veritable barrage of shellfire against the incoming tide of German bombers, intent on raining down yet another night of both death and destruction on London. And tonight, once again, it would be the East End of the city which bore the brunt of it.

In due course, Max and Claire spent an uncomfortable wedding night, their first as man and wife, along with countless others, men, women, and children, lying huddled together on improvised bedding on one of the the platforms of the disused St. Mary's (Whitechapel Road) Underground Station which had been adapted as a communal air raid shelter, while fifty feet above them, laid waste by thousands of pounds of high explosives and set alight by incendiary bombs, now bathed in a fiery, hellish glow, the East End of London burned.

* * *

 **St. Thomas's Hospital, London, 15th September 1940.**

The following day, with the pain from his knee now unbearable, Max was admitted to St. Thomas's Hospital. Bombed a matter of days earlier, the hospital stood just across the River Thames from the Houses of Parliament. That night, with Claire at his bedside, in the soft glow of lamplight, he smiled her a wan smile.

"I would so much have liked to show you Rosenberg".

"You will, my darling, you will".

"I'm so very sorry," he mumbled, his voice now growing fainter.

"Max, darling, don't be, silly. In sickness and in health, remember? Now, save your strength and concentrate on getting better," said Claire brightly.

"I love you," he said softly. She reached for his hand.

A moment later, as Max lapsed into unconsciousness, Claire reached hurriedly for the alarm.

* * *

 **London, 16th September 1940.**

Early the next morning, after spending a wretched, sleepless night, with Max now beginning the slow and painful business of a blood transfusion, seated in the passage around the corner from his room, at the sound of approaching footsteps, Claire looked up, expecting to see either a doctor or a nurse. Instead she was confronted by the sight of two people, both of them in civilian clothes, and who looked somehow vaguely familiar. A moment later and memory stirred: the man and the woman who had wished both her and Max well at All Hallows and who she had thought she had seen again on the Whitechapel Road. The footsteps came to a stop in front of her.

"Mrs. Schönborn?"

It was the first time anybody had addressed her by her married name.

When Claire didn't reply, the man repeated his enquiry.

"Yes".

"Would you come with us please".

"Who are you? My husband ..."  
"Your husband is in safe hands. As to precisely who we are ..."

* * *

The car set off from the hospital across Westminster Bridge, through the press of the London traffic but where it was bound, Claire could not possibly imagine. Doing her best to maintain a stolid air of indifference, but in reality with her heart beating wildly, she sat back and watched what was taking place beyond the windows of the car. What struck her most was the deceptive air of seeming normality, with buses and taxis in the streets and, while they all were carrying gas marks, people on the pavements going about their daily business, getting on with their lives as if nothing untoward was taking place.

However, the number of men and women in uniform, the ground floor windows and doorways of many large buildings protected by walls of sandbags, the glass liberally taped to prevent splintering, let alone the sight of bomb damaged buildings of which there were many, amongst them a shop, a greengrocer's, with its front blown out and bearing the sign _More open than usual_ , and men with pick axes and shovels clearing rubble from the streets, all told a different story; while in the sky high above, as she craned her neck, Claire caught sight of the enormous silvery grey barrage balloons deployed against enemy aircraft.

After what seemed an age, the car drew to a stop outside an elegant town house in a leafy suburb. The polished brass nameplate beside the front door proclaimed that it housed something called the "Joint Technical Board". Mystified, Claire found herself escorted politely inside, and shown into a room where a man in uniform was seated behind a large desk.

* * *

 **Somewhere in London.**

"... being an enemy alien, entering this country in wartime on a passport and with papers of ... dubious legality, these ... these are matters which can be ... put to one side. Even the minor matter of your husband's brother's dog. There are strict rules prohibiting the landing of animals from abroad - rabies - don't you know". The officer glanced at the file on the desk. "Now, I'm sure that ... Kurt would not wish to see his beloved dog taken away and shot. You see, we know all about your husband's family".

"You can't do that!"  
"Can't? My dear girl, there is nothing that **we** can't do, if we decide to apply ourselves to it. But as I said, these things can be put to one side".

"Put to one side? What do you mean?"

"Ignored then. In return we would want something of you. Quid pro quo. More particularly ... of your husband; when he has recovered".

"If he does," said Claire bitterly".

"I am sure he will. More tea?"

Claire shook her head. She didn't want tea. Her mind in a whirl, both with what she had heard and what she had been told, all she wanted was to return to the hospital to be at Max's side, if and when he regained consciousness.

Just then, the telephone on the desk rang and Claire was privy to a one-sided conversation, at the end of which the officer replaced the receiver and smiled.

"Well, it would seem that I was right. Your husband has regained consciousness. I will have someone drive you back to the hospital. Tomorrow we can resume our ... little discussion. Shall we say, here, at ten o'clock? A car will collect you from the hospital. Don't be late".

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, evening, 16th September 1940.**

"This is the BBC Home Service. Here is the news. Yesterday night there was further heavy bombing of London. In repeated attacks by enemy aircraft ..."

The letter which Max had left for his parents on the mantelpiece in his bedroom here at Downton just over three weeks ago, had made it clear that they should not worry about him but that he and Claire were engaged to be married and that they intended to settle in London, where she could then pursue her ambition to study and become a doctor. With Robert having returned to active service some six weeks earlier, so singularly unaware of the money which he had loaned Max, concerned for his health, fearing the worst, desperate to prevent what they both saw as an ill-advised marriage, at the insistence of both Friedrich and Edith, the police had been informed.

However, their resources overstretched by the demands of the war, with police enquiries both down in Devonshire and in the capital, let alone those which Matthew himself had put in hand through contacts of his own up in London, so far having proved useless, sick with worry, unable to listen any longer to what tonight was being reported by the BBC, fighting back her tears, Edith switched off the radio. A few moments later, as she was crossing the Hall in search of Friedrich, beside the ornate Fabergé clock, the telephone began to ring.

"It's all right, Pickard. I'll answer it!"

Edith picked up the receiver.

"Hello". The line crackled.

"Is that Downton Abbey?"

"It is. May I ask who is calling, please?"  
"Lady Edith, is that you?"  
"Who is this please?"

"It's ... Claire. Claire von Schönborn. Max's wife".

* * *

 **Occupied France, 19th November 1940.**

In the four months which passed between the beginning and the end of the Battle of Britain, whatever the Luftwaffe had thrown at them, the pilots of the RAF always rose to the challenge and they did so on what proved to be the final day in October, just as they had done from the very beginning way back in July. Now, with the Battle of Britain over, even while the Blitz continued, the RAF sought also to take the fight to the enemy, across the Channel, in Occupied France ...

After crossing the English Channel at low altitude so as to avoid radar detection, the squadron of Hurricanes reached the French coast near Le Touquet before flying inland to their target, a series of factories on the edge of Lille now being used to produce a variety of materials useful to the Germans war effort.

Sometime later, with their mission accomplished, it was on their way back, somewhere close to the port of Boulogne with its heavy anti-aircraft defences, that Robert made a fatal error. So as to avoid running a gauntlet of heavy flak, the Hurricanes had altered course away from town but, as they did so, below him, Rob saw a steam engine and its tender, belching smoke, standing isolated and stationary on a railway line. Unable to resist the temptation of a sitting target, Robert dived fast on the engine, opening up on it with his machine guns as he came in range. A minute later and the locomotive exploded in a lethal rain of shards of metal and a huge cloud of steam. It was as he soared skywards but while still at a low altitude that the Hurricane was hit by a sudden burst of flak. With the engine of the fighter belching black smoke and oil rapidly obscuring his windscreen, still too low to bail out, Rob shoved back the shattered canopy of the Hurricane and began looking for a field in which to crash-land. Luck was with him, or so he thought. Catching sight of a ploughed field, he banked the Hurricane and glided in.

The ground came up to meet him at a rate of knots. Moments later, the bullet-ridden Hurricane had slithered to a stand in the clay soil of the ploughed field. Clambering out onto the wing, Rob saw the group of grey uniformed-clad figures now hurrying towards him.

* * *

At the sight of half dozen German rifles trained on him, Flight Lieutenant Robert Crawley raised his hands in abject and complete surrender. The officer in the black uniform of the Waffen-SS nodded; indicated with a quick wave of his pistol that Robert should move away from the smouldering Hurricane and into the clearing. Sensing nothing untoward, Robert did as he was bidden. Behind him, the Hurricane burst into a mass of orange flame and began to burn fiercely. For a moment or two, Robert stood motionless. Looking up at the scudding storm wracked clouds and the slate grey of the sky, he thought of Saiorse; wondered when he would ever see her again.

A moment later and there came a sudden burst of gunfire.

Startled by all the noise, flapping their wings, cawing harshly, the crows sitting on the nearby telegraph wires rose en masse and drifted up into the bare black branches of the neighbouring trees.

Save for the crackle of the burning Hurricane, an eerie silence settled over the wood.

* * *

 **Funchal, Madeira, June 1941.**

The small house stood in the Rua de Santa Maria, not far from the church of the same name. His face streaked with sweat, stripped to the waist, his skin turned a golden brown by constant exposure to the sun, wearing nothing more than a pair of old khaki shorts, and looking more like a boy than the father of two small children, Danny Branson came inside from the vegetable plot he was digging behind the house. At the sight which now greeted him within, he smiled. While Daniel was playing happily with the ginger kitten on the stone flagged floor, with baby Tomás seated in her lap, Carmen was sitting at the rough wooden table peeling potatoes.

"Jaysus, but it's hot out there for sure!" Danny wiped a dirt-stained hand across his brow.

Carmen looked up at him and smiled, then indicated the earthenware pitcher of water which stood beside her on the table. Danny nodded and poured himself a glass. A moment later, his brows knitted, and he frowned.

"What's that?" Setting down the empty glass, he nodded towards the far end of the table where something white stood propped against a jar of flowers.

"¿Cómo se ve?"

"A letter?"

"Por supuesto que es una carta". Carmen laughed. "From Ireland," she added.

 **Author's note:**

Founded in 1758, Samuel Smith's is Yorkshire's oldest brewery.

Although the cheque which Robert gives Max may not appear very large, £200 in 1940 would, in today's money, equate to nearly £12,000.

While the locations referred to in the East End of London are all real, the Pavilion Theatre and the disused Tube station of St. Mary's (Whitechapel Road) were badly damaged in the Blitz and later demolished. Burnt out by German incendiary bombs in December 1940, the church of All Hallows-by-the-Tower, the oldest church in the City of London, was later restored and still stands, as it has done for centuries, close to the Tower of London.

St. Thomas's Hospital, London, was first bombed on 8th September 1940. Hit in total on some dozen occasions, the hospital continued to function throughout the war.


	14. Chapter 14

Some of what follows in both this and succeeding chapters may distress you. Sadly, life is not all fluffy bunnies and rainbows.

The Irish Chauffeur

Chapter Fourteen

A Time To Be Born, And A Time To Die

 **Funchal, Madeira, August 1940.**

While Mary made no secret of the fact that it was a continuing source of disappointment that of her and Matthew's four children only young Emily, now aged nearly eight, showed an affinity with horses or any appetite for riding, she would doubtless have been both gratified, as well as somewhat surprised, to learn that one of her nephews, was now almost as competent a rider as was she herself. And while it was true enough that young Kurt indeed loved to ride, it was not he who was the fine horseman, but Danny.

When Danny and Carmen, along with little Daniel, had arrived off Funchal aboard the Pedro in the late summer of 1940, they had not intended to stay. But then, a series of circumstances had led to just exactly that occurrence, foremost being the part that Danny had played in an act of supreme selflessness in saving the life of Flora, the six year old daughter of Colonel John Blantyre. Had it not been for that, along with their own lack of papers, let alone their involvement with the lost Republican cause in the Spanish Civil War, it was doubtful if the Portuguese authorities would have let them stay at all. However, Colonel Blantyre was a man to be reckoned with and not only that; he also owned one of the largest vineyards on the island.

But that is to anticipate.

First came the failure, yet again, of the Pedro's starboard engine and the inability, here in remote Madeira, to obtain spare parts so as to effect a lasting repair for the long voyage home, back across the often storm wracked waters of the North Atlantic, to Bilbao.

And then, one day from the deck of the rusting Pedro, while watching a load of heavy wooden wine casks being unloaded from a dray down on the quay in the hot sunshine, seeing the load suddenly shift, and a small girl, singularly unaware of what had happened, standing directly in the path of the casks, without a thought for his own safety, Danny had sprinted down the gangway, and pulled the child to safety in the nick of time.

Thereafter, learning what had happened, Colonel Blantyre came on board the Pedro to thank Danny personally for saving his child's life. Learning from the handsome young Irishman how they were stranded here in Madeira, finding him to be extremely personable, the colonel had offered Danny a job.

* * *

"Do you know how to ride?"  
"No," replied Danny, truthfully.

"Then best you learn," said the colonel, standing with his back to Danny, while looking down on the sparkling blue waters of the bay. "After all, there's no real way of reaching some of the estate, let alone inspecting the levadas, other than on horseback".

* * *

 **London, England, 17th September 1940.**

After a decidedly gruelling railway journey of some six hours duration, southwards from Yorkshire, on a late running, hopelessly overcrowded, blacked out train, at long last, Edith finally reached the capital. Despite the exigencies of the war, the train, which she had boarded in York, was still ludicrously called an express, albeit stripped of its pre-war comfort and elegance, in that the compartments and corridors were all but taken over by service personnel, soldiers, sailors, and airmen, there was no longer a restaurant car, and a trip to the toilet of the carriage in which she was seated was all but impossible. Fortunately, Mrs. White had seen fit to provide Edith with both a parcel of sandwiches done up in grease proof paper and a thermos flask of tea for her journey south. However, as for reaching the toilet, bone weary, unwilling to fight her way through the melee of passengers and thereby also run the risk in the process of finding on her return that she had lost her seat, Edith stayed precisely where she was, crammed into one corner of the dirty, overcrowded compartment, along with a bevy of soldiers from the West Yorkshire Regiment, and did her very best not to worry and instead to try and sleep.

As daylight waned and it grew darker still, with station name boards removed altogether and the blackout regulations being strictly enforced, whenever the long train drew to a stop alongside yet another darkened platform, with the gas lamps dimmed, shaded, or else extinguished altogether, it was very difficult for those on board the express to tell precisely where they were; the more so when they stopped in the middle of the open countryside, and which they did on more than one occasion.

Then, as, it grew darker still, and night at last fell, with the train finally nearing London, once in the suburbs of the capital the express was subject to several lengthy delays. The last of these proved to be the longest; the waiting train seemingly completely forgotten about by the railway authorities, marooned in a deep, dark cutting, with nothing for anyone to see except high retaining walls built of drab brick. Ahead of them, those on the train could see the beams of searchlights crisscrossing the night sky, followed in turn by the incessant thud of anti-aircraft guns, while from overhead there could be heard the relentless drone of enemy aircraft, followed in their wake by the crump of high explosives, the resultant explosions lighting up the darkness in lurid sheets of vivid orange and red flame, shaking the carriages of the standing train, as for the tenth night in a row, or so Edith overheard someone out in the corridor say, the Luftwaffe rained down death and destruction upon London.

And, amid all of this appalling carnage, darling Max lay helpless, in all probability dying, in a bed in St. Thomas's Hospital. At the image this thought conjured up, in the blackness and her own despair, doing her best to choke back a sob, Edith sniffed heavily.

" 'ere, you all right, lady?" asked the burly soldier seated beside her in the darkness.

"Yes, perfectly, thank you" said Edith, now doing her best to quickly regain her composure.

"It don't sound like it," persisted the soldier, albeit solicitously.

"My son … is seriously ill … in hospital," she volunteered hesitantly, wondering at the same time why on earth she had said anything further at all.

"Injured at Dunkirk were 'e then?"

"No; because of what's wrong with him, he's unable to fight".

The soldier nodded sympathetically.

"Like my kid brother; 'e 'ad polio when 'e were a boy. 'is one leg's all bent and twisted". The soldier paused before asking the inevitable question. "So what's wrong with 'im then, your lad?"

"A blood disorder".

"Yer don't say. Well I never".

This information evidently gave Edith's companion some pause for thought, was seemingly lost on him, beyond his powers of comprehension, for he fell silent. Then, when at last he spoke again, it was to say simply that he hoped her boy would be all right and to offer Edith a humbug which she politely declined.

Eventually, with the All Clear having sounded, the heavy train moved off, to begin with crawling along at an absolute snail's pace, before finally gathering speed, and at last steaming into King's Cross beneath the imposing overall arched iron and glass roof of the huge station. Thereafter, bowled along in the uniformed flood of passengers who had all descended from the late running express, struggling along the bustling platform, carrying her own suitcase - porters too seemed to be a thing of the past - in the smoky darkness, along with everyone else, Edith headed towards the ticket barrier.

"Need a hand, little lady?" asked a Cockney voice close at hand. Edith turned to see a sailor, the gilt lettering on the black band of his cap proclaiming him to be from off HMS Hood, his bulging canvas kitbag swinging lazily over one shoulder, holding out his free hand for her suitcase. Not only on account of his accent but also in his build and colouring, the sailor reminded Edith painfully of Tom Benson who, in sacrificing his own life, had saved those of Kurt and herself in the aftermath of the sinking of the Lancastria off the west coast of France.

"Thank you, that would be most kind".

The sailor smiled, displaying a surprising set of perfect white teeth, and promptly took a firm grasp of her heavy leather suitcase as if it had been empty and made of cardboard, as indeed, what with all the shortages, these days some indeed were, and escorted her down the length of the platform with its thronging sea of humanity.

All of which served to put Edith in mind of the gaggle of children, evacuees from the East End of London who, exhausted, frightened, nervous, wide eyed and white faced, each tagged with a luggage label as though they were parcels and carrying a gas mask in a box, clutching a cardboard suitcase, had arrived in Downton on two trains at the beginning of August; as it happened in the nick of time just before the bombing of the capital had began. Along with women from the local WVS, both Mary and Edith had formed part of the welcome committee on the platform at Downton and had spent the next couple of days seeing the children safely billeted in cottages both on the estate and in the village. On the evening after the children's arrival, when during dinner, Mary began to itch uncontrollably, she was convinced she had caught scabies from one of the children, although the local doctor, summoned that evening to the abbey, after he had examined her, assured Mary that what she was suffering from was nothing more than a touch of hives or, to give the complaint its common name: nettle rash.

However, Mary herself remained unconvinced.

So much so, that for several weeks thereafter, if by chance she happened to see any of the evacuee children walking towards her on the pavement down in the village, or encountered them elsewhere on the estate, she took to crossing to the other side of the street, or else giving them a very wide berth indeed.

Which, to be truthful, was exceedingly unfair; given the fact that Mary knew very well how she had caught nettle rash.

For, on the very morning of the day the refugees were to arrive, she had accompanied Matthew out in the MG. It had been exceedingly hot and when, some time later, Matthew had stopped the motor in a shaded, secluded spot close to the ruins of an old barn and suggested they take a look inside, one thing had led to another, an improvised bed having been hastily made from out of their clothes and the rug from the MG. Not that either of them noticed it at the time, intent as they were on each other, but the spot chosen by Matthew for the tryst, while private, was also very close to a bank of nettles.

* * *

Having said goodbye to the sailor, Edith took a taxi to the Russell Hotel in Bloomsbury, where she had booked a room and where also, in happier times, several years earlier, both Friedrich and Max had stayed. Thereafter, she took the Underground to Waterloo and from there walked briskly to St. Thomas's Hospital.

* * *

 **St. Thomas's Hospital, London.**

Despite her annoyance, not to say anger, when Edith saw them together, Max lying prostrate in bed with Claire seated beside him, so obviously worried, there was no denying that they made a handsome pair.

"And you have ..."

"Mama, please! Claire's my wife. In **every** sense of the word. Of course we've ..." Max sounded horrified by his mother's question. His voice faded; the morphine he had been given had made him very drowsy. Even so, there was no mistaking the way he was looking at Claire. Edith had seen that look once before, years ago, at the Shelbourne Hotel, in Dublin, when for the very first time Tom had proclaimed openly his love for Sybil; one of utter and heartfelt devotion that transcended everything else.

Edith waved her son into silence.

"Oh, please! Spare me the details!"

"Is ... Papa ... is Papa very angry?" asked Max haltingly.  
"No, surprisingly not. In fact, after the initial shock, he's been remarkably sanguine about the whole business".

Max sighed and with evident relief.

"And Kurt?"

This time it was Edith herself who sighed; spared a thought for what had been the excited reaction of her younger son when, having just been informed by both his parents of what had happened, Mary, along with Matthew, had both come into the Drawing Room, Matthew straight from having had an acrimonious talk on the telephone with Robert, in the aftermath of his own and Saiorse's admission about the money which they had given Max and Claire and which had enabled the two of them to marry.

 _"Uncle Matthew! Aunt Mary! I'm a brother-in-law!" explained young Kurt beaming from ear to ear, the pride he clearly felt evident in his voice._

 _"Yes, darling, I suppose you are," said Mary tonelessly._

"Very proud that he's a brother-in-law. Although I'm not at all sure that he quite understands what it all means. Any of it," said Edith.

At that moment the door opened and a doctor and nurse came into the room. Edith saw her son grimace; understood the reason why. The blood transfusion would be both long and painful.

"And as for you, young lady, you and I have things to discuss," said Edith peremptorily; she had the satisfaction of seeing Claire begin chewing her lower lip. But while Edith still meant to tell Miss Barton ... Claire ... her daughter-in-law ... a few home truths about what she thought of the whole affair, how deceitful the two of them had been, Edith found herself possessed of the unshakeable conviction that somehow, in the end, things would turn out all right.

For, despite having the odds stacked against them, Max and Claire were possessed of one supreme advantage.

They had married for love.

* * *

 **Near Boulogne, Occupied France, November 1940.**

Several years earlier, back in July 1932, although looking back from where he was now, it seemed a lifetime ago, when, along with his cousins Danny and Max, Robert had found himself stranded in the Alps, both Danny and he had both envied young Max's ability to speak French for, as Robert's old French teacher at Ripon Grammar School, would have readily concurred, languages were decidedly not Robert Crawley's forte. As a result of which, save for a few simple words, such as _oui_ and _non_ , Robert's command of French was almost non existent.

So, it was by dint of a series of rapid hand gestures, and in broken English, rather than by spoken French, that his rescuers, who had appeared on the scene at the eleventh hour, now made Robert understand that they were from the Resistance; that they had to leave immediately. That they had also to put as much distance between themselves and the now fiercely burning Hurricane as possible before the Germans were alerted to what had happened, sent in more troops, and began a thorough search of the immediate area; not just for one downed British pilot but also in a ruthless search for the Resistance fighters who had saved Robert's life and in so doing killed several of their comrades, among them an officer in the SS.

Picking himself up from off the ground, running, keeping low, Robert and the members of the Resistance now made themselves scarce and as it happened, not a moment too soon, for, happening to glance back over his shoulder as they disappeared into cover in a small wood, Robert saw a German fighter, a Focke-Wulf, he thought, swooping low over the fields, the pilot no doubt radioing back to his base exactly what he had observed.

* * *

 **Blackrock, Dublin, Ireland, November 1940.**

When it arrived, all the way from distant Madeira, the letter had taken over three months to reach them. Having fetched down an atlas from off one of the shelves in what Tom, with a nod to his late father-in-law, was wont to call his Library, with Sybil seated beside him, Bobby resting his folded arms on the back of his Da's chair and Dermot seated on his lap, their father proceeded to show the two boys precisely where Madeira was - far out in the vastness of the Atlantic Ocean.

In his letter, having first apologised for the abruptness of his departure from both Downton and then from Dublin, assured his parents that all was well, exceedingly so, Danny went on to explain that he would be staying on the island and making a life for himself there with both Carmen and their little boy, that he had found a job working for the owner of one of the largest vineyards in Madeira.

And with the letter, there came a photograph and which, against a backdrop of palm trees, showed Danny standing, proudly holding a young dark haired boy in his arms, while beside them stood a smiling, dark haired young woman.

* * *

After Bobby and Dermot had gone upstairs, Tom and Sybil read Danny's closely written letter again.

"At least he's safe," said Tom, now laying aside both his spectacles and the letter.

"Is that all you can say?"

"Well, with Robert missing and Simon having received his call up papers, yes. As well as that from what Danny says here, it's as plain as a pikestaff that he loves this girl very much. And she him. Edith was right. Their boy looks just Danny did when he was that age".

Sybil nodded.

"I know Mary and Saiorse are still refusing to accept the inevitable: that Robert must be dead. Then again, maybe they're right, not to give up hope. As for Simon and the girls, I don't think it's quite sunk in yet, that in all probability, this time, their brother won't be coming back. And now that Simon's been called up ..."

"To be sure. Although, as far as Simon is concerned, we both knew it was only a matter of time. Whether or not my letter to the tribunal will help in anyway in his attempt to be registered as a conscientious objector remains to be seen. Somehow I doubt it. Besides which, from what Matthew told me on the telephone, Simon's perfectly content to serve but only if he can do so as a non combatant, in the Royal Army Medical Corps. So maybe that's the way it will be for sure".

"And what about Matthew? Has he told you how's he coping with all of this?"

"Well, you know Matthew. He doesn't like any kind of unpleasantness. He shuts himself away. As to precisely how he's coping with it all, from what little he's said, by doing what he's been doing ever since the war began. By burying himself in the running of the estate for sure. With all he's got on his plate at the moment, thank goodness the police have dropped pursuing that nonsense about Barrow and accepted that he did commit suicide after all".

Sybil nodded. What Tom had just said came as no great surprise; it was so like Matthew.

"As for. ... **her** ... Well, I still think she seduced him. In my book, she's a scheming Spanish hussy!"

"A Spanish hussy?" Tom laughed. "Why not a beguiling dark-eyed senorita who took a lonely, handsome, young Irishman to her bed high in the snow capped Pyrenees? That sounds far more romantic!"  
"Oh, be serious, Tom".

"I am, for sure! But as for seduction, I expect Danny was as much a willing partner in it all as she was herself, for sure. And, after all, what's done is done!"

"But to saddle himself with a ... Well, what is she precisely? He doesn't say they're married now, does he?"  
"No, for sure. but does it matter if they're not?"

"Of course it does! Can you imagine what Granny and Papa would have said? And God knows how we're going to break the news to Mama and the rest of the family, that Danny's living with this girl, unmarried".  
"Well, if God knows, then why don't you ask Him? Darlin', in the scheme of things, given what's happening, does any of it really matter? Look at Max and Claire running off like that to get married. In any case, I expect Edith's seen to it that your mother and everyone else at Downton knows how things stand with Danny. As for your grandmother and your father, for all their love of tradition, both of them were realists. If they were here now, while they might not approve, I think they would accept that the world has changed from how it was in their day; that what with the war, people choose to get on with things, to live their lives differently".

* * *

 **Somewhere in the Limousin, Vichy France, April 1941.**

When the contingent of police of the French State, supported by a detachment of soldiers, arrived in the sunlit square of the village in a couple of open lorries, in order to begin a thorough house to house search, they were not looking for Robert Crawley at all; rather they were here in search of members of the maquis, those Frenchman who, here in the south, with the defeat of France, had escaped into the mountains, and who were opposed to the policies of Marshal Petain's rump French government which had established itself in the spa town of Vichy, and which collaborated with the German military administration in the Zone Occupée, the area of the country under direct military control of the Germans.

Here at the house on the Rue du Moulin, all anyone looking in through the kitchen window would have seen was a young Frenchman eating his soup and reading a newspaper. For, dressed, as he now was, as indeed he had been for several months, in the rough clothes of a French working man, at a glance, Robert Crawley looked to be exactly what in fact he was not. Even to the point, right at the beginning, of having surrendered his English underwear in exchange for French. Quite why, at first, he couldn't for the life of him fathom, for if he had been caught by the Germans in the Zone Occupée, then interrogated, having heard something of the brutality of the Gestapo, long before he was stripped to his underpants, there was no way on God's earth that Robert could have maintained the pretence of being a Frenchman.

Now though, some six months later, having been on the run throughout France, all the while moving steadily southwards, first through the Zone Occupée, before crossing secretly over into the so-called Zone Libre, the rump of France nominally controlled by the collaborationist Vichy government, Robert's command of French had improved considerably, was quite passable. And he could understand equally why he needed to look the part of what he purported to be.

After all, with the French driving on the opposite side of the road, something as seemingly innocuous as looking the wrong way before crossing the street, being in possession of a packet of English cigarettes, or even being caught wearing a pair of underpants bearing the name of a gentlemen's outfitters in Jermyn Street, London, could spell disaster. Although, even now, if he were to be captured and interrogated, Robert wondered just how long he would be able to keep up the pretence of being French. Not that he had the slightest intention of putting that to the test.

Alerted by Marie to the arrival of the police and soldiers, Robert didn't need to be told twice.

He went out through the open kitchen door at the double, startling a gaggle of brown hens scratching in the dirt in the yard, pecking for grubs and worms. Scrambling over garden walls, running through gates, hot footing it down a succession of cobbled alleys in a desperate race against time, having only stopped to take off his sabots, which he then stuffed inside his jacket not only so that he made less noise but also on account of the fact that he found running in them well nigh impossible, Robert at last reached the edge of the village. Before him he saw a narrow wooden footbridge, spanning what he assumed must be a stream while behind him, he heard screams, then the sound of shots followed by a burst of machine gun fire; saw too the first flickers of flame. As he turned away, crouching low, it was as he ran out from the cover of the adjacent building and onto the wooden boards of the bridge, that he heard Marie shouting at him to stop.

* * *

 **Blackrock, Dublin, Ireland, early morning, 31st May 1941.**

Even with the window open and a cooling, salt tanged breeze blowing in from off the waters of the Irish Sea, the night was still hot and stuffy. The covers flung back, the sheets a tangled, rumpled mess, having just made love, sated and utterly content, their naked bodies rapidly cooling, Tom and Sybil lay beside each other on their bed.

"Well, Mr. Branson, you may be a grandfather but there's clearly life in the old dog yet!" laughed Sybil. She snuggled against him.

"Aye, and, as a grandmother, yous don't do so bad yourself for sure!" chuckled Tom slipping his arm about her.

"Grandmother!" exclaimed Sybil, now sitting up, crossing her arms over her breasts, and clasping her shoulders with her hands. She sounded absolutely horrified. Now spared a fleeting thought for her own late grandmother Violet, as Sybil remembered her, back in the 1920s. Then, and for years before, long since Dowager Countess of Downton, ebony walking cane clutched firmly between the arthritic fingers of one bony hand, tottering imperiously across the stone flagged hall of the abbey, towards the front door held open for her by the now equally late Carson, and beyond which granny's chauffeur driven motor was drawn up on the gravel outside, waiting to take her back to the Dower House.

"So, penny for them?" asked Tom reaching up and lazily twining a tendril of her damp hair between his fingers. Sybil loosed her arms, giving Tom an unrivalled view of her ample, magnificent breasts - still in his view her finest physical feature - before she lay back down, this time on her front, propped herself up on her elbows, turning her head so that she could look at him.

"Well, I was just thinking, with what might have been, what with the war and all, I know I shouldn't risk tempting Providence, but save for poor Robert, just how incredibly lucky we've all been".

Tom sighed.

"You think he's dead then?"  
"Well, don't you? After that garbled report Matthew and Mary received three months ago, about an RAF pilot shot down over Boulogne last year, being rescued by the French Resistance, there hasn't been any further word. And even if it were true, there's no proof that the pilot was Robert. None at all. Even if Mary hasn't come to terms with what's happened, the rest of the family has, and that includes Saiorse. Thank God for the twins. At least with Alexander and Sorcha, she has her hands full and hasn't the time to sit and brood. By the way, eventually, she wants to go back to nursing, did you know?"

"To be sure," Tom nodded, staring up at a moth as it fluttered around the light in the centre of the ceiling. "Twins! Who would have thought it?"

Sybil smiled.

"I wonder how Bobby's debut went?"

"He'll have been fine for sure".

"No doubt, but singing in public for the first time ..."

* * *

Of all the Branson children, it was young Bobby - Dermot being still only nine - who so far had proved to be the most musical. While both Danny and Saiorse could sing, in this regard it was young Bobby who was undoubtedly the most gifted. A good pianist and lately a chorister at St. John's Church, of Tom and Sybil's three boys, in looks, Bobby most resembled his Da. Even though his voice had now broken, it was clear that, like his father, he would be a fine tenor and it was this which had taken him over to the Northside of Dublin where, earlier this evening, in the company of his friend Seamus Murphy, the two boys had been singing at a ceilidh, with Bobby staying overnight with Seamus at his parents' home before the two of them went to see a football match at Croke Park the following afternoon.

* * *

"What was that?" asked Sybil suddenly.

"What was what?"

"That?"

"The roar of the sea, silly!" exclaimed Tom.

"No, not that. The other sound. Listen".

There now came faintly to their ears what sounded like the rumble of distant thunder.

"What? That? Passing freight train," said Tom and yawned.

Sybil shook her head. Unconvinced, she sat up again, swung her still shapely legs over the side of the bed. Standing up, she reached for her dressing gown, shrugged into it, and loosely tied the sash.

"I'm going to check on Dermot".

"Whatever for? Darlin', he'll be fine. Here ..." Tom stretched out his arms. "Come back to bed".

Sybil shook her head.

"No, I must ..."

Downstairs in the hall, the telephone began to ring.

* * *

 **Blackrock, Dublin, Ireland, 6th June 1941.**

In the aftermath of the air raid on Dublin's Northside, in which Bobby and so many others lost their lives, the Irish government immediately voiced its vehement protest to the German authorities in Berlin who promptly apologised, claiming that high winds were to blame; that there had been British interference with their navigation signals. Not that either reason altered the fact that over thirty people lost their lives, along with considerable damage having been caused to private property.

The day they buried him in St. John's churchyard, the day was dull and overcast. As the small coffin was lowered slowly into the void, there beside Bobby's grave, along with all of Tom's adoptive family, stood Tom and Sybil themselves, both red eyed from weeping, she holding young Dermot tightly by the hand, the little boy trying, and failing, to hold back his tears. While, understandably, none of the Crawleys, who now included Saiorse, or the Schonborns, were able to attendr, there were wreaths from Saiorse, as well as from Matthew and Mary, and as from Friedrich and Edith, on behalf of themselves and their children. As for Danny, Sybil had still to write and tell him the sad news of what had happened, and which she did but a few days later.

It was just as the first clods of earth hit the coffin, borne faintly on the breeze from off the sea, that there came, or so it seemed to Tom, a plaintive echo of Bobby's much loved "The Water Is Wide".

 _The water is wide, I cannot get o'er_  
 _Neither have I wings to fly_  
 _Give me a boat that can carry two_  
 _And both shall cross my true love and I_  
 _I lean'd my back against an oak_  
 _Thinking it was a mighty tree_  
 _But first it bent and then it broke_  
 _So did my love prove false to me_  
 _I put my hand in some soft bush_  
 _Thinking the sweetest flow'are to find_  
 _I prick'd my finger to the bone_  
 _And left the sweetest flow'are behind_  
 _O love is handsome and love is kind_  
 _Gay as a jewel when it is new_  
 _But love grows old and waxes cold_  
 _And fades away like the morning dew_  
 _The water is wide, I cannot get o'er_  
 _Neither have I wings to fly_  
 _Give me a boat that can carry two_  
 _And both shall cross my true love and I_

* * *

 **Funchal, Madeira, June 1941.**

The silence in the heavily beamed kitchen lengthened. Somewhere a church bell clanged discordantly while from down in the harbour there came the sound of a ship's hooter and the noise of a heavy anchor chain being run out.

 **"** ¿Qué es?" asked Carmen at last, sensing from Danny's demeanour that something must be terribly wrong.

* * *

Ma's letter, enclosing with it a cutting from Da's own newspaper, the Indy, recounted in stark detail what had happened that night on the north side of Dublin, where Bobby had gone to stay with his friend, Seamus Murphy, who lived with his parents in Seville Place.

En route to Belfast across the border in Northern Ireland, in the darkness, having lost their way, and off course, over Dublin, the flight of German aircraft found themselves under attack, whereupon they had retaliated by loosing their deadly cargo of bombs. One had fallen in Ballybough, demolishing two houses, and injuring many, but with no loss of life. A second fell at the Dog Pond pumping works near the zoo in Phoenix Park damaging the official residence of the Irish President, while a third made a huge crater in the North Circular Road near Summerhill. The fourth fell in North Strand, this time with fatal consequences, the worst damage occurring between Seville Place and Newcomen Bridge.

* * *

"Siempre fue tan vivo," said Danny brokenly, as he sobbed openly against Carmen's shoulder. "He was always so alive. First Rob, and now this".

* * *

 **Dower House, Downton, Yorkshire, England, 19th July 1941.**

Built at the end of the eighteenth century, for Lady Caroline Crawley who did not get on with her husband owing to what these days would be termed irreconcilable differences, in this instance the constant gambling and womanising of her husband, the dissolute Lord Edward Crawley, one of the several black sheep of the family, the Dower House, as it was now called, stood by itself just beyond the far end of the village. These days, the Dower House was occupied by Cora, Dowager Countess of Grantham, who had moved here following Robert's death in the summer of 1931. Tonight, as was her wont, Cora had retired early, and so too her small domestic staff of a butler and two maids.

Crippled by anti aircraft fire, sustained in the attack on the Victoria Dock in Hull, in which it had taken part, with his co-pilot badly injured, many of the instruments on board, including the altimeter, either damaged or else not working at all, knowing that he would not make it home to Germany, with the pilot now desperately seeking somewhere to land, the noise of the low flying aircraft woke many here in Downton, among them possibly even Cora herself; but then again, hopefully not.

The Heinkel was much lower than the pilot thought. In the darkness, its belly clipped the top of the spire of St. Mary's Church, bringing down much of the fifteenth century spire, and sending the aircraft into a fatal spin.

Moments later, it hit the Dower House, the building erupting in a mass of fiery red flames.

Neither those on board the Heinkel nor any of those asleep inside the house ever stood a chance.

* * *

 **Funchal, Madeira, September 1941.**

"Then, will you?" asked Danny, going down before her on one knee.

* * *

With both the Emergency and the war now in their third year, the destruction and killing continuing unabated, indeed had worsened, spreading still further afield with the Germans having occupied the Balkans in the spring and then invaded Soviet Russia in the summer with the military forces of Imperial Japan having swept through vast swathes of the Far East, now in early December had launched a deadly, unprovoked, and premeditated devastating attack on the American Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbour.

After the deaths of both darling Bobby and Cora, with Robert still missing and Simon, having being called up for military service, now serving in the Royal Army Medical Corps, for the Bransons and the Crawleys, both in County Dublin in Ireland and across the sea in Yorkshire in England, it seemed that this year, Christmas would be a muted, sad affair.

Still without its own merchant navy, and perilously reliant on British supplies, here in Ireland there was a constant shortage of all manner of essential goods and foodstuffs. To be truthful, life for the majority was becoming very hard indeed. The British press attaché in Dublin summed up succinctly the direness of the state of affairs by reporting "No coal. No petrol. No gas. No electric. No paraffin. Guinness good".

One December evening, shortly after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbour, having eaten a particularly frugal supper, which put both of them in mind of the time they had spent at Skerries House in the summer of 1920, Tom and Sybil were sitting by the fireside, Tom chanced to remark that in Dublin, the prostitutes were now asking for payment not in cash but in commodities like soap or tea, both of which were in short supply. When, with a grin, Sybil had asked him just how he knew that, he had laughed at her and said that he made it his business to be well informed.

And, to add to the shortage of food, on the farms there was an outbreak of Foot and Mouth, reducing the availability of fresh meat. As Sybil knew only too well, a poor diet weakened the resistance of the population to disease; so she and her colleagues at the hospital were unsurprised to see not only a sudden increase in the incidence of childhood rickets, but also the re-emergence of something equally as bad: the deadly typhus, something which had not been seen here on such a scale since the Great Famine of nearly a century ago.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England,** **Christmas Eve 1941** **.**

The situation over in England was just as bad, made worse by the constant bombing of London and other large cities such as Birmingham, Liverpool, Manchester, and Glasgow, as well as many others too, including Belfast over in Northern Ireland; along with ports such as Bristol, Cardiff, Portsmouth, Plymouth, and Hull. While the Blitz, as it had become known, had ended in May, air raids by the Luftwaffe still continued. Rationing, which initially had covered petrol, bacon, butter, sugar, now included meat, tea, jam, biscuits, cheese, eggs, lard, milk, canned and dried fruit, paper and even clothes. Despite the entry of the United States into the war, _b_ _etter late than never_ , had been Matthew's characteristically terse observation in the most recent letter he had written to Tom, there was little good cheer to be had from any of the various military fronts,

Understandably, here at the abbey, the mood was sombre there being still no news of Robert, while Simon was out in Singapore, now under bombardment by the Japanese. Max and Claire were up in London, she studying at Medical School and he, while enjoying a run of good health, working long hours, engaged on whatever it was he was he did for the government, about which he said very little, but with neither of them expected here at Downton until the New Year, if they could get on a train. Friedrich, Edith and Kurt were living at Crawley House, but had come to spend Christmas here at the abbey with Matthew, Mary, Rebecca, Emily, Saiorse and the twins. Even so, with most of the rooms in that part of the house still used by the family shut up, their furnishings swathed in dust sheets, the domestic staff reduced to a bare minimum, with the boys from St. Dominic's School having gone down for the holidays, the great house seemed but a shadow of its former self.

* * *

Having tucked young Kurt into bed in the old night nursery and said goodnight to the happy little boy, on her way down the main staircase, Edith paused. Despite all that had happened, it still came as a something of a shock to see that for the very first time she could recall the hall was bereft of its massive decorated Christmas tree, replaced by a far more modest offering in the Drawing Room.

As she reached the foot of the stairs, the telephone began to ring. Crossing the hall to the table, Edith picked up the receiver.

"Downton Abbey. Lady Edith Schonborn speaking".

"Mama?"

"Max! How lovely to hear from you! Happy Christmas, darling!"

"Happy Christmas, Mama". Max sounded somewhat distrait the fact of which was not lost on his mother.

"Are you all right, my darling?"  
"Yes, perfectly".

"And ... Claire?"  
"Very well, thank you. Studying hard. Mama, is Uncle Matthew there?"

"Of course, darling. He's in the Drawing Room, with Aunt Mary, Saiorse, and Papa. Shall I fetch him to the 'phone?"  
"That might be for the best".

"Oh, Lord! It's not more bad news, is it?"  
"No, Mama. Quite the reverse. The fact is ..."

* * *

 **Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, Ireland,** **Christmas Eve 1941** **.**

Here in Blackrock, with Danny in distant Madeira and there being little prospect of seeing him again for a very long time to come, and Saiorse and the twins over in England, up in Yorkshire at Downton, for the sake of young Dermot, now aged nine, and missing his brother Bobby dreadfully, Tom and Sybil had done their very best to rise to the occasion and embrace the spirit of this festive time of year. Even so, remarked Sybil tartly, given the deaths of both darling Bobby and dearest Mama, and with all that was now happening, how could anyone believe in peace on earth and goodwill towards men? Even so, the previous Saturday, with young Dermot in tow - after what had happened to Bobby, at least for the time being, Sybil would not let their youngest out of her sight - the Bransons had all caught the train into Dublin to do some Christmas shopping on O'Connell Street.

Tonight, as the last train of the evening puffed noisily away from the little station below Idrone Terrace, Tom and Sybil were wrapping up presents, most of which were for young Dermot, now upstairs in bed, although Sybil doubted that he was asleep.

A few minutes later there came a heavy knock at the front door.

"Who on earth ..." began Tom.  
"Carol singers, I expect".

"I told you not to light that candle!" Tom nodded emphatically towards the front window, to where a solitary candle stood burning as a sign of welcome for both Mary and Joseph on Christmas Eve but these days also for anyone else who might just happen to call on this holiest of nights.

"It's an Irish tradition!" laughed Sybil.

"Ah, to be sure!" chuckled Tom. "Here, I'll go". He yawned, rose to his feet, stretched his arms above his head, and wandered out into the hallway in his slippers. Sybil heard him unbolt the door but thereafter, save for a slight shuffling of several pairs of feet and muffled voices, nothing more.

"Tom? There's some change in my purse," she called.

"No need of that for sure," sang out Tom gaily, in that instant sounding, thought Sybil, far more like himself than he had done at any time in the past seven months since Bobby had been killed. At that, Sybil permitted herself the briefest of smiles. Despite how awful everything was, maybe, just maybe, the spirit of the season was working its magic after all. Then again perhaps it had been the two glasses of malt whiskey which Tom had downed after supper and which, had made him more than unusually useless at wrapping Christmas presents.

The sitting room door swung back on its hinges. Then the floor creaked, just as it always did when someone entered the room. Whatever Tom did by way of a repair, and he was usually so good with such things, in the long run, it never seemed to make the slightest difference; sooner or later, the warped floorboard would begin to creak anew. Still down on her hands and knees, concentrating on wrapping up the very last of the presents, Sybil raised her head again, expecting to see Tom.

Instead, standing before her, she saw a handsome, sunburned, dark haired young man holding a small boy gently by the hand and, behind him in the open doorway, a dark haired young woman with a mewling, swaddled infant held tightly to her breast, her belly already softly rounded with yet another child, their third, and whom, in that very instant, Sybil knew without a shadow of a doubt would be another boy, as from off the waters of Dublin Bay, carried lightly on the winter wind, she heard the haunting strains of _"Oh, Holy Night"_ , and which, had been darling Bobby's favourite carol.

"Hello, Ma," said Danny, and opened wide his arms.

 **Author's Note:**

Unique to Madeira, the levadas are centuries old man-made water courses which bring water from the north and west of the island to the drier southeast.

Between 7th September and 2nd November 1940, the Luftwaffe bombed London without respite.

It was not until the 1950s that a vaccine to immunise against polio become available.

WVS - Women's Voluntary Service founded in 1938 - shortly before the war began.

Despite being neutral, by the summer of 1941, Ireland had already suffered several bombing raids by the Luftwaffe, all of which had caused damage to property but no loss of life. The bombing of the Northside of Dublin on 31st May 1941 happened as described. As to precisely why this incident occurred, there are several theories, some fanciful, others more plausible. Whatever the truth of the matter, the fact that it was all a ghastly mistake - after the war the West German government paid out compensation to the Irish authorities - seems the most likely explanation.

"The Water Is Wide" is a haunting Scottish folk song, of which there are several versions, all based on lyrics that date back to the 1600s, and which remains very popular, even today, in the twenty first century.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

A Time To Kill, And A Time To Heal

 **Funchal,** **Madeira, September 1941.**

When at first she didn't answer him, Danny wondered if he had blundered, though he couldn't imagine how that could possibly be so. While neither of them had much time for organised religion, both he and Carmen had a faith of sorts. He knew too, that for all her support of the Republican cause in Spain, Carmen had been brought up a Catholic, and that of her three brothers while Roderigo had fought for the Nationalists and Miguel, who part owned the _Pedro_ , for the Republicans, Antonio, the youngest, was a priest in San Sebastian.

So, to be doubly sure, continuing to gaze up at her, Danny had repeated his question, this time in Spanish.

"¿Quieres casarte conmigo?"

A moment later, he saw her break into a radiant smile, and nod her head, before cupping his face with her hands, and kissing him soundly.

"Ah, Danny, mi amor, me casaré contigo. Yes, of course I will!"

* * *

 **Church of Our Lady,** **Monte, Madeira, October 1941.**

She saw him, standing waiting for her at the top of the steep flight of steps which led upwards to the church, and from where there was a breath taking view out over Funchal and the seemingly boundless waters of the Atlantic Ocean; thought him to be every inch as handsome as that first time she had seen him in the foothills of the Pyrenees back in January 1938.

The wedding itself was a quiet affair; a public recognition of what was already a private fact. Having by now learned a very great deal more about the antecedents of his young protégé, the unassuming, softly spoken Irishman who, by dint of his own hard work, his affinity with all manner of machinery, and his ability to get on with one and all, had come to stand high in the estimation of his employer. So much so that when Danny had let it be known that he and Carmen were getting married, in the absence of her own father, Colonel Blantyre offered to give the bride away and, by way of a wedding gift, provided a small reception for the happy couple, at Reid's Hotel. In all of this, Danny's one and only regret was that his family could not be present but then it was also the same for Carmen.

Shortly thereafter, Danny wrote, on behalf of them both, home to Ma and Da in distant Dublin, telling his parents of what had taken place. But they never received his letter; nor indeed the one informing them that, with the money they had saved, Danny, Carmen and the boys were sailing for Lisbon at the end of November and from there, weather permitting, taking ship to Dublin. All things being equal, they would be home in time for Christmas.

But when no letters arrived from Dublin, they were not unduly surprised or even dismayed. After all, at this time of the year, the steamers were often delayed by bad weather and the mail service irregular. And, in this regard, the war only served to make things a whole lot worse.

* * *

 **La Canebière,** **Marseille, Vichy France, November 1941.**

Even with the shutters closed, here in the garret, there was a distinct chill in the air. In the half light, naked, Robert rolled off her and over to the other side of the bed, and got up. Not bothering to dress, he walked the few steps to the window, unlatched the shutter and gazed down on the scene before him. Here, high up among the chimney stacks and the slate roofs of the houses at the southern end of La Canebière, overlooking the port dominated by its huge metal transbordeur, there was little chance of being seen. The chimneys and the roofs reminded him instantly of the view he and Danny had seen from the train while en route to the Gare de Lyon in the summer of 1932, when Danny, aged all of twelve years, had a struck up an unexpected conversation with a French prostitute.

Glancing down into the street, Robert saw a young man and a woman, she pushing a pram, and thought wistfully of Saiorse; if all had gone well, she would have had the baby months ago, in April or May, and he would now be a father. He wondered which it had been, whether a boy or a girl. Turning he looked over at the bed where, for the moment, Marie still slept.

He knew that what they had done, should never have happened but they had been on the run together for several months, living in close proximity, sharing the same food, the same lodgings, and the same chance of being caught, with even more serious consequences for her than for him if that were to happen. So, it was, he supposed, inevitable that, eventually, it should have come down to this.

Had it not been for such darnned bad luck with the raid by the Germans on what was supposed to have been a safe house some distance south of Boulogne, on that second night here in France, if instead everything had gone to plan, he would have made it down to the Spanish border long since, crossed over into Spain, much as Aunt Edith had done, and then, all things being equal, got home to England. The reality had been somewhat different, when along with two others, who in the confusion had also somehow managed to escape the raid on the house, the three of them had set off south, mostly on foot.

Somewhere down beyond the Loire, after several weeks in hiding, he had been passed into the care of the local maquis, the intention being for him to be taken to Marseille, and then stow away on board a ship bound for Spain. From there it would be relatively easy for him to cross into Gibraltar. And which, was how and why he came now to be here, gazing out over the rooftops of the port of Marseille.

Marie had not been part of the plan.

Then on that day, several months later, when the Vichy police and the soldiers had come calling, when Marie had caught up with him beside the barn and had begged that he take her with him, hearing shooting coming from the village, Rob had been left with no choice but to agree. Besides which, as Marie explained later, she had contacts and friends here in Marseille, who would be able to make the necessary arrangements and see him smuggled on board a ship bound for Spain.

Now sitting back on the bed, Robert lit a Gauloise and inhaled deeply; watched the smoke spiral lazily upwards into the rafters. Through the open window, from somewhere down in the harbour there came the cry of gulls, the sound of a ship's hooter, while below in the street two men could be heard arguing.

"Cherie? Robert?" Marie gave his name the French pronounciation. Now wide awake, she sat up in bed, pulled the sheet up to cover her bare breasts. Robert smiled; offered her the cigarette, and which she took from him.

"But why?" she asked at length, still drawing on the cigarette.

"Because I have to, can't you see?"

* * *

 **Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, Ireland, Christmas Eve 1941.**

Sybil needed no further bidding to do as he had asked of her. Rising swiftly to her feet, her eyes misting, she walked the few steps that separated them, and found herself at once enfolded tightly in Danny's strong arms.

"Just hold me, my darling," she whispered, her face wet with tears. Sybil felt his lips gently graze her forehead. These days, Danny was taller than her by several inches.

"For sure, Ma. For as long as you need," came his soft and lilting reply.

* * *

 **London, England, December 1941.**

With Max possessing his mother's innate flair for languages, when he had recovered sufficiently from receiving the blood transfusion, and was at last on the mend, Claire had explained to him about the proposal made to her while he was in hospital which, in essence, was that he be recruited into the ranks of something called the SOE, the Special Operations Executive, as a wireless operator based here in London receiving messages from agents and the Resistance over in France and that, as and when necessary acting also as both an interpreter and translator. Given his parents' well known opposition to the Nazis over in Austria, his family ties here in England to the earl of Grantham, and because obviously Max could not serve in the field, it would mean too that at last he could do something practical in the fight against Germany. In addition, any irregularities arising from Max and his father's arrival here in England in the aftermath of the sinking of the Lancastria would be smoothed over. Quid pro quo, arrangements would be made enabling Claire to commence her training as a doctor at the London Royal Free Hospital School of Medicine for Women, part of London University.

As Max said several times, he would have been a fool to refuse; which was why this month both he and Claire had moved into a much better flat in Kensington in the west of London and from where each morning, they both took the Underground, he to a non-descript town house in leafy St. John's Wood and she to Hunter Street, Bloomsbury. With regular money coming, they hoped they would be in a position to able to set aside a sum towards paying back the money given them by Robert, and which even with Rob missing, presumed killed, Max still insisted was a loan, and that should be repaid in full, to Saiorse.

And it was as a result of a radio message received from France that, at Christmas, Max had learned of a young British pilot, shot down over France in November 1940, and who was now safely in Gibraltar, awaiting an aircraft to bring him home. The pilot turned out to be Robert.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, Christmas Eve 1941.**

"Max, my dear boy. Happy Christmas!"  
"Happy Christmas, Uncle Matthew".

"Your mother said you wanted to speak to me?"  
"Yes that's right".

There was a long pause. The silence lengthened.

"Are you still there, old chap?"  
"Yes Uncle Matthew. The fact is ..."

* * *

A short while later, Matthew strode purposefully back into the Drawing Room, to find himself under immediate scrutiny from several pairs of watchful, waiting eyes.

"There's news," he said, looking slowly round at each of them in turn.

"News," repeated Mary.

Matthew nodded.

"The best of all possible news!" He broke into the broadest of possible grins.

* * *

 **Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, Ireland, Christmas 1941.**

Like his father, Danny Branson had a flair for bringing laughter and light wherever he went and with the arrival here in Blackrock of himself, Carmen and their young family, the pall of both despair and gloom which had descended over the house in Idrone Terrace following Bobby's death at last began to lift. Not that Bobby would ever be forgotten, far from it, but little by little, slowly life began to return to normal. Of course, Danny had not known of what had happened to his grandmother but the sad news of her death was eclipsed by the telegram which arrived from Downton announcing that Robert was both alive and well, was on his way home, and was expected in England by the end of the year. The only dark cloud on the horizon was that early in the New Year, Danny, Carmen and the children would be returning to Madeira where they had made a life for themselves.

However, for the time being at least, all thought of that was put to one side with Tom and Sybil getting to know both Carmen and their two grandsons, Daniel and Tomas. And if, over in England Kurt had been delighted to become a brother-in-law, here in Blackrock, young Dermot was as proud as Punch to be called **Uncle** Dermot, even if he had been so ever since the birth of his sister Saiorse's twins, Alexander and Sorcha, the previous spring. Seated by the warm fire, with Tomas seated on Sybil's knee, while Tom played with Daniel on the hearth rug, watched by an amused Danny and Carmen, as far as the Bransons were concerned, outside, the harsh winter weather could do its very worst.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, 12th February 1942.**

Here in this part of the West Riding, it was bitterly cold and turning into a very wild and stormy night, with the wind howling and stinging bursts of sleet laden rain driving hard with a savage ferocity against the ancient stonework and the windows of the abbey; all of which could be heard plainly by those gathered around the Drawing Room fireplace, notwithstanding the shutters being closed and the thick curtains tightly drawn.

Edith looked up.

"Oh, my goodness! Just listen to the wind. It's turning into a really nasty night". She glanced over to where Kurt was sitting at a small table doing a jigsaw puzzle, with Hope nestled at his feet. Edith smiled. Kurt was such a happy, contented little boy, even more so since now he had met properly his sister-in-law, Claire, who was presently helping him with his jigsaw. "Even so, I rather think that we ought to be getting back to Crawley House. Darling?" She looked at Friedrich seated beside her on the settee, who nodded his head in agreement.

"If you say so, my dear".

Beyond the curtains and the shutters, the sash windows now rattled as a particularly strong gust of wind buffeted the house.

"Well, at least wait until the weather improves. In any case, you're all more than welcome to stay, if you wish to. Oh, do say yes. Why, it would be just like old times, wouldn't it, Matthew?" The countess of Grantham smiled.

Matthew turned his head and likewise smiled.

Even now, after all this time, with everything that had happened, and these days in much straightened circumstances, Mary did so like to play the part of the chatelaine. Matthew found himself wondering how she would take to his plan to save Downton for posterity and which he had so far not mentioned to her. Knew too that Mary would undoubtedly oppose what it was that he had in mind. For, despite all he had done down the years to ensure the estate's survival, and, unlike many it was, in remarkably good shape, even so, he knew that it would not be enough to protect it from what was undoubtedly coming. The days of the great landed estates were over and they were already passing into history, as indeed many of them had done already. This war would sound the death knell for the remainder. Now, with the demands being made upon the estate here at Downton by the war, and the lack of materials for repairs and further modernisation, in order for it to pass it on intact first to Robert, and then, probably in the 1960s to Alexander, there really was no other way. And it was what he perceived to be the only solution to the dilemma which he now faced which would be taking Matthew up to London in a couple of days time.

Edith shook her head.

Obviously it had been kindly meant but Mary really hadn't thought things through.

Linen would need to be found and then beds made up. Edith couldn't see Mary doing either. She spared a fond thought for Sybil for having shown her how to make beds properly here at Downton during the last war when the house had been in use as a convalescent home for, how was it darling Tom had termed it? Oh, yes. _Randy officers_. And in the years which had followed there had been countless times when Edith had turned to and made up camp beds for Friedrich, for darling Max, and for herself when they had been out on digs in the Near East.

All this apart, to be perfectly frank, here at Downton, as Edith had seen for herself at Christmas, with no central heating and without fires in all the rooms - and these days there was nobody to see to them - some of what, in the old days had once been bedrooms set aside for guests, were damp, smelt musty, and were as cold as the proverbial grave. It was difficult enough keeping Crawley House warm in the winter let alone this draughty old place. For all its beauty, Rosenberg had been much the same and Edith found herself wondering how it had fared; if they would ever see it again. It seemed unlikely. Wondered too, when the war ended, as surely one day it must, how Downton itself would survive. She knew Matthew had done a very great deal; far more than dearest Papa ever had, to keep the estate together. But was it enough? Somehow, she doubted it.

"Edith?"

"Thank you, Mary. But no. After all, Max and Claire have a long journey ahead of them tomorrow, back up to London. Don't you, my darlings?"

Looking first at Max, and then over at Claire, Edith smiled fondly. Whenever the two of them were back here at Downton, whether at Crawley House or up at the abbey, she often caught sight of the soft glances that passed continually between both her elder son and her daughter-in-law. These reminded Edith instantly of both darling Tom and Sybil; the more so because, in the days and weeks which had passed since she had met Claire properly, as Max had recovered, Edith had come to realise that theirs was indeed a love match.

* * *

 **The Russell Hotel, Bloomsbury, London, September 1941.**

Admittedly Edith and Claire had got off to somewhat of a rocky start, but realising eventually that they were kindred spirits, that both of them loved Max devotedly, increasingly the bond between them was one of mutual respect, the more so since Edith had played her part in smoothing ruffled feathers and calming the troubled waters between Claire and her father. For when Claire had let him know, that she and Max were married, Mr. Barton had been incredulous or _bliddy mazed_ as he put it. Said that she was being just plain _zart_ and, believing that the _bliddy jerry_ had forced himself upon her, and that now _expectin' a_ _tacker_ she had to get married, was on the point of coming _up country_ , as he called it, to London, taking hold of her by the scruff of the neck, and hauling her all the way back down to Devonshire.

Thereafter, in a lengthy telephone call from her bedroom in the Russell Hotel in London, Edith had explained to Mr. Barton just how things stood. And in her own no-nonsense approach, something she shared with her daughter-in-law, and which, in years to come, stood Claire in good stead in her chosen profession as a doctor, told him a few home truths. For, rather like when Sybil was on the warpath, if Edith ever got the bit between her teeth, as Friedrich would have told you, there was no stopping her.

No, Claire hadn't **had** to marry Max; he **wasn't** that **sort** of boy. Nor was Claire that sort of girl. Although, if Edith had known the truth of a certain midnight tryst which had taken place here in this very house she might not have been so vociferous in her defence of the pair of them. That **yes** , Max **would** be able to provide for her in the future. And that while it was true enough that he was half Austrian, he was also half English, and in **no sense** was he _a bliddy furriner_.

All of which, seemed, at length, to somewhat mollify Mr. Barton, so much so, that when Edith had finished speaking, he asked, rather sheepishly, if he might have a word with his daughter. Then, when Claire came on the other end of the line to speak to her Dad, she was astonished to be asked just when it was she intended bringing Max back down to the farm so that Mr. Barton could meet properly the young man who was now his son-in-law. He had, he admitted, not paid him that much attention when Max and his father had stayed there briefly in the summer of 1940. And, when the 'phone call finally ended, down in Devonshire, at Sheepwash Farm, Shute Cross, all Claire's father would say to his other children on the subject was that Edith was a _rare powerful woman._

And thereafter, he shuffled slowly up the stairs to bed.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, 12th February 1942.**

"And ..." Edith lowered her voice. "I do rather think it's time Kurt was in bed otherwise he'll be falling asleep at school in the morning and that will never do".

Last autumn, somewhat surprisingly, Friedrich and Edith had decided to send Kurt to the village school here in Downton as, by the time he was old enough to go to the grammar school in Ripon, hopefully the war would have ended and he would be able to resume his interrupted education back in Austria at a gymnasium. For the time being, however, the village school here in Downton would serve him very well. As things turned out, being of a sunny disposition, Kurt fitted in well and had soon made friends, especially with one of the evacuees, a young Jewish boy by the name of, Isaac Solomon, from Bethnal Green in the East End of London.

Seated beside the Drawing Room fireplace, in front of the roaring fire, Edith now eyed Mary cautiously; could see that with every passing minute, she had become increasingly more and more upset, as well she might, by the conversation taking place between Matthew and Friedrich regarding Singapore and which the two men had begun earlier over dinner **.** Thank God for the presence here tonight of the younger generation represented both by Max and Claire, and by Robert and Saiorse who had just come downstairs from seeing the twins settled for the night.

Robert had been absolutely delighted when, on his return here to Downton, he had learned that he had become the father of twins. And for all that he had missed their birth, Saiorse could not fault him as a father; attentive, doting, and deeply loving. Now, as they joined everyone else here in the Drawing Room, having learned from Saiorse more of Danny's marriage, the fact that he was the father of two boys, and that Carmen was expecting another baby, Rob had laughed.

"I have to hand it to Danny! The crafty beggar! Marrying his Spanish lady. And a third child on the way!"

Unbidden there now formed in Rob's mind the picture of the garret room over the café on La Canebière in the port area of distant Marseille where Marie and he had been in hiding, waiting for a boat that would taken him along the coast to Spain, from whence, if his run of good luck held, he could reach Gibraltar, and safety.

* * *

 **Marseille, Vichy France, November 1941.**

"I'm carrying your child," Marie said softly.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, 12th February 1942.**

"So what's she like, Aunt Edith?" asked Saiorse.

"Who, darling?"  
"Danny's wife. That's who". Like her mother, Saiorse was never one to beat about the bush. "Ma says that he absolutely adores her. Just like Da does Ma".

"Does she? Well, from what I know of Carmen, yes I know she loves your brother very much. That apart ..."

"... and I have it on very good authority that Churchill believes Singapore to be well nigh impregnable, that it can withstand anything the Japanese can throw at it. He's calling it the Gibraltar of the East" said Matthew who now looked directly at Robert sat seated beside Saiorse. "A fair comparison, wouldn't you say old chap? After all, you've just come back from there".

"Father, I was only on the Rock for twenty four hours, and most of that was undercover of darkness. And, sorry to disappoint you but reconnoitring the island's defensive capabilities was the last thing on my mind. After a year on the run over there in France, all I wanted, as you can imagine was to get home, back to Saiorse and the baby ... the children!"

Robert smiled happily at his wife, who patted and squeezed his knee reassuringly.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, 11th February 1942.**

Robert and Saiorse were lying face to face in bed, their hands entwined when, again the image of that damned garret room in Marseille hove maddeningly into view. Marie writhing beneath him as he possessed her, much as he had Saiorse but a few moments earlier.

"And, Marie?" asked Saiorse quietly.

The silence lengthened. He thought he must have misheard her; so he said nothing.

"Marie?" persisted Saiorse.

Clearly not.

"What about her?" Robert asked and with obvious reluctance.

"Who is she?"

"I told you".

"Then tell me again".

"Someone I met, over there in France, in the Resistance," said Robert softly. "She helped me escape from Marseille. Why do you ask?"

"Because, just now, at the last, the very last, you called her name," said Saiorse.

At that, her mind in a whirl, her heart pounding against the walls of her chest, she turned away from him and buried her face in the pillow. Be sensible, thought Saiorse. After all, they were both possessed of the same sensuous nature; had intense physical needs that required to be satisfied. In fact, when they first became lovers, Robert had surprised her just how passionate he was, and from him she had learned undreamed ways of giving physical pleasure. That being so, be reasonable. He had been gone from her for over a year. She could hardly expect him to have been a monk. Unaware of what she was thinking, Robert now reached for her; drew Saiorse back into the circle of his arms. She didn't resist him. Instead, Saiorse turned to face him; snuggled closer.

"It is good to be home, isn't it?" she asked hesitantly.

"Of course," he lied.

"Then, show me," Saiorse whispered.

She didn't need to ask him again.

Robert smiled; greedily his lips sought hers as he began to nudge her legs apart.

* * *

Sated, Saiorse had fallen asleep long since while Robert lay awake, lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, listening to howl of the wind and the screech of a barn owl hunting its prey in the park.

If only ...

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, 12th February 1942.**

Friedrich nodded his head benignly.

"Indeed. Now, as to what you were just saying, Matthew, what convinces you or indeed Mr. Churchill that Singapore is impregnable? After all, very much the same, dare I say it, boastful claim, was made by us about Przemyśl during the last war and that fell to the Russians in a matter of weeks. As for the _Siegfriedstellung_ , what you called the Hindenburg Line ..." Friedrich spread his hands expansively. "And the Maginot Line, the French considered that to be the work of genius. Whichever the military genius was who designed it, he took no account of the fact that when it came to it, the Germans would simply bypass it, by marching through the Low Countries as they did in May 1940! Some genius!" Friedrich snorted derisively, shrugged his shoulders expressively, and shook his head in utter disbelief at the folly of man.

Matthew smiled.

"Yes, but surely ..."

"Hubris," said Friedrich flatly. "All nations believe in their own invincibility; sadly history tells us otherwise. Empires, Egyptian, Babylonian, Hittite, Roman, Byzantine, Russian, German, Austro-Hungarian, Ottoman, even British, they rise and eventually they fall".

"You sound just like Tom!"  
Friedrich smiled.

"He's right; you know he is".

"Perhaps. But as for Singapore, well, for one thing, the Naval Base there protects the city from attack by sea, while on the landward side there are hundreds of miles of impenetrable jungle".

"Really? So impenetrable, that the Japanese have managed to sweep down through Malaya in less than a month and are now knocking on Singapore's back door!"

"Well, maybe. But don't forget, we've over 100,000 troops on the island as well".

"Indeed".

"I haven't convinced you, have I?" asked Matthew. He eyed Friedrich's empty glass. "Would you like another?"

"No, you haven't. Yes, thank you".

"What about you two? Rob? Max?" asked Matthew affably.

Max glanced at Claire.

"No, thank you Uncle Matthew. As Mama said, we've a long journey ahead of us tomorrow. We've got to catch the morning train so I think we ..."

* * *

 **Singapore, British Malaya, 12th February 1942.**

Disbelieving of the scenes of absolute horror which had unfolded before him during the last few hours, by turns shivering and then sweating, wondering if it was indeed the malaria from which he was suffering which was making things seem much worse than they actually were, grasping hold of the ship's rail more firmly, this time with both his hands, so tightly in fact that his knuckles turned white, eighteen year old Lance Corporal Simon Crawley now of the Royal Army Medical Corps stood on the stern of the Blue Funnel Line's _Eurydice_ , gazing out into the fire shot darkness, back across the frothing waters of the sea, dotted with floating, disfigured corpses, towards where Singapore now burned.

While it was still early in the morning, in the east, dawn had already broken. Not that anyone aboard the _Eurydice_ would have known it, for to all intents and purposes it might just as well still have been night, so dark was it. The air was full of dust, thick with the reek of cordite, while over everything there drifted enormous dense palls of thick black smoke from the oil storage tanks and other harbour installations, blown up by the sappers so as to prevent them falling intact into the hands of the Japanese; the huge metal tanks now burning furiously, so much so that now, when it rained, as it did frequently at this time of year, the air being both moist and humid in the tropics, the raindrops fell to earth black, laden with both oil and soot. And along with the stench of cordite and the reek of oil there was something else in the air too: the smell of defeat. For everyone knew that the position was now hopeless and that it could only be a matter of days before Singapore finally fell.

As he continued to stand and watch, Simon permitted himself a wry smile. He supposed that he should be thankful for the fact that he had contracted malaria in the first place. For it was this which had seen him lain him up in Tanglin Naval Hospital; so that when, four days earlier, the Japanese had launched their all out attack on the island of Singapore and its defences, he was tucked up in bed, in a hospital ward, and so safely out of harm's way.

 _Out of harm's way?_

Simon smiled ruefully again.

In Singapore, with the Japanese army swarming onto the island and overrunning its threadbare defences, in an on-going nightmare which transcended anything Simon could have possibly ever have imagined, even in his wildest dreams, despite the over weaning confidence of the High Command, no-one, whether civilian or military, adult or child, had been safe. With the Japanese now no more than four miles distant, those trapped like rats in the city had been being killed at the rate of some two thousand a day, not including those who had been wounded.

And, thought Simon, as in so many things, Uncle Tom had the right of it. How was it he had put it in one of their many discussions before he had reported for his basic training?

 _"I suppose I shouldn't be saying this to you for sure, and your father wouldn't like me telling you, but you'll find that wherever you go the British bestride the world like a Colossus, as though the Almighty has chosen them to colonise the world. Only, the sad truth is, Simon, He hasn't. They can be beaten and humiliated just like anyone else. It happened to them in Ireland and mark my words, lad, it will happen again elsewhere in the world, for sure"._

And now it had, just as Uncle Tom had predicted it would, but this time here, in Singapore.

For all that he was not a military man, was in fact far more like his Uncle Tom, a lover not a fighter, Simon was not at all surprised that in the end it had come down to this. For, from conversations he had overheard in the last few days, with the sinking of both HMS Prince of Wales and HMS Repulse, together with the destruction of all of the RAF's airfields and aircraft further up country, the defence of Singapore had rested solely with the army. That being so, what he had been witness to was, Simon supposed, inevitable. Defeated at Jitra, the army had retreated south and so begun something which then had continued all the way down the five hundred miles of the Malay Peninsula. The British would try to make a stand. The Japanese would attack. The British would retreat.

And so, eventually, they had found themselves, fighting the Japanese with their backs to the sea, in Singapore; where not twenty four hours since, along with many thousands of both civilians and military personnel, Simon along with all the rest had been waiting to be evacuated in the nick of time before the city finally fell.

* * *

 **Singapore, 11th February 1942.**

With the Japanese having broken through and crossed the Johor Straits onto the island, the Tanglin Naval Hospital had been evacuated; cleared of both its patients and medical staff. So, it was from the back of the bullet scarred ambulance, which had brought him and several other patients, more in fact than the vehicle was ever designed to hold, down through the city to the harbour in order that they could be put on board ship and evacuated, that Simon Crawley saw at close quarters the hell which Singapore had become.

Because of all the damage that the bombing had inflicted, they had been forced to take a circuitous route but now, with the ambulance finally having pulled to a stop, the orderlies began helping out those inside. Preferring to shift for himself, somewhat unsteadily, Simon chose to clamber out unaided; saw that beneath his boots, the surface of the quayside was filthy, littered with all manner of detritus, cluttered with a line of abandoned motors parked bumper to bumper, and above all, crowded with milling, terrified refugees.

Out beyond the harbour, even now, at this the eleventh hour, the British artillery positions on Pulau Belakang Mati were somehow still managing to keep on firing on the ever encroaching, encircling enemy lines, the heavy shells shrieking as they passed close overhead, but for how much longer the gunners could keep firing was anybody's guess. Ammunition had been said to be running short several days ago. Looking up, Simon could see Japanese planes swarming in the sky above the city, repeatedly unleashing their deadly rain of bombs which, exploding on impact, sent up enormous columns of choking dust and debris, obscuring from sight once familiar landmarks such as the distinctive spire of St. Andrew's Church, the clock tower of the Victoria Memorial Hall, and the impressive dome of the Supreme Court building.

Other enemy planes swooped lower, dropping lethal anti-personnel grenades which exploded in mid air before they hit the ground, the Japanese pilots targeting not only those soldiers trying desperately to defend the city but also the civilian population. By now, too, Japanese naval units had all but ringed the island, and were firing indiscriminately at those British 25-pounder batteries still in operation, supported in their endeavours by mortars intent on trying to snuff out the very last flickers of resistance being made by the increasingly desperate defenders of this isolated outpost of the far flung British Empire. Beneath this continued onslaught, much of the city had already been destroyed, set on fire or reduced to rubble, with many of its buildings having collapsed as though they had been little more than packs of playing cards, on to streets made virtually impassable by huge tangles of wires and poles that had once provided Singapore with both its electricity supply and its telephones.

It was not only the rubble of collapsed buildings, along with the tangle of wires and poles, that had rendered most of the city streets impassable. Others were blocked by abandoned motors, driven here by their civilian owners from rubber plantations far up-country. Now, if hit by bullets or shells, the cars exploded, catching fire in an instant. The civic fire brigade had ceased to function long since but even if it had still been operational, there was no longer a functioning water supply with which to fight the fires. Along with the reservoirs supplying the city, the mains had been destroyed, with most of what water remained in the pipes, either now polluted by raw sewage, or else running away down the surface of the roads.

And, left to burn, the fires soon spread to adjoining buildings, until whole streets were aflame; the smoke both from the burning buildings and from the oil storage facilities blotting out the sun to the extent that when it was midday one would have thought it was late evening; while, lying unburied in the streets and floating in the polluted, stinking canals, were bloated decaying corpses, both human and animal, of many of the thousands who had been killed in the incessant air raids.

What made all of this infinitely worse was that trapped here in the city there were still many more thousands, some said close on a million, civilian refugees, men, women, and children, and whether European, Chinese, Indian or Malay, all of whom were in desperate need of food and water, both of which were in short supply; who had no means of protection during the Japanese onslaught, the swampy ground having prevented the building of any proper air raid shelters. All they could do was to crouch inside large drainpipes and monsoon ditches, desperately trying to seek some protection from the incessant barrage of bombs, shells, and machine-gun bullets coming from the low-flying Japanese planes.

Waiting patiently in line, standing beside the now empty ambulance, Simon could see that many of the trading offices, the warehouses, and the shophouses lining the Singapore river were ablaze; so too was a Chinese junk out there in the harbour. While still in the ambulance, as it had wound its way down Battery Road, he had seen Cavenagh Bridge, packed with a panic-stricken, heaving mass of humanity and rickshaws. And now, below the imposing mass of the Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corporation Building and the equally impressive bulk of the Union Building, lined up on the very edge of Clifford Pier, outside its distinctive arched concrete terminal, Simon could see that there were scores of women and children, all desperately awaiting rescue.

Here beside the quay, there were berthed all manner of large boats and ships, taking on board, as fast as they were able to, as many people as they could, military personnel both able bodied and wounded, from the RAF, the Royal Navy, and the British Army, as well as civilians, men, women, and children, along with considerable amounts of both military equipment and stores. And weaving among the larger vessels were the tongkangs and the twakows all jostling bow and stern for a place to dock ...

"' ere **you**! Yes, **you** , you daft bugger! You're next! And be quick about it. In case you 'adn't realised it, flower, this ain't no bleedin' tea dance at Raffles!"

Simon now turned; to see a red-faced sergeant major, perspiring profusely, jab his finger at him, indicating that he should now go on board. Doing as he had been ordered, Simon made his way slowly up the gangway, and, a few moments later found himself stepping onto the deck of the _Eurydice_ , clearly, albeit hastily emblazoned with Red Cross markings, indicating that she was a hospital ship, crowded with the sick and wounded and those assigned to care for them, bound for Batavia, and, safety.

* * *

 **Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Ireland, 12th February 1942.**

The weather over in Ireland was no better than it was in England. Here in County Dublin, as elsewhere in the country, heavy snow had fallen, and it was bitterly cold. Having looked in on Dermot, who she found to be sound asleep, despite having taken the precaution of lighting a fire in their own bedroom, as well as having put a couple of extra blankets on the bed, with Tom complaining about how cold her feet were, tonight Sybil was taking no chances, and was wearing a pair of bed socks.

"Tom?"  
"Hm?" With the room now comfortably warm, as Sybil climbed into bed and snuggled contentedly against him as a cat, wearing his customary vest and pyjama bottoms, he was already drowsy, almost half asleep.

"It was so lovely, having Danny and his family here, wasn't it?"  
"For sure". He sighed contentedly.

Danny, Carmen, and the two boys had all set sail for Madeira, via Lisbon, the previous week, with both Tom and Sybil doing their best to conceal their own serious misgivings about making the journey in wartime even though Danny assured them that they had encountered no problems sailing to Ireland and that, sailing on board ships flying the Portuguese flag, they would all be perfectly safe.

"And, I assume, darlin', you're a mite happier, now that you know they're married?" Tom chuckled.

"Indeed I am!"

"Ah, Danny! a chip off the old block for sure!"

"Oh, most definitely," agreed Sybil.

"Why _most_ _definitely_?"

"Because ... because, my darling, I'm expecting another child. That's why".

* * *

Tom was delighted.

Despite everything that had happened, and with the war now entering its fourth year, somehow, for all their sakes, life had to go on. So, perhaps 1942 would bring better news for all of them, not only here in Dublin but across the sea in Downton, and also from further afield.

And then ...

* * *

 **Durian Strait, south of Singapore, 12th September 1942.**

Later the same morning, at last having safely cleared the minefields laid to protect the sea approaches to Singapore, some fifty miles to the south, just as the convoy, now steaming at full speed, was south east off Kundur Island, and about to clear the Durian Strait, the lookouts reported sighting enemy aircraft. While air attacks by the Japanese were fully expected, on board the _Eurydice_ the fact that the convoy was about to be attacked caused consternation, verging on panic. Understandably so. For, on board her, crammed into every available space were some 2,500 people, perhaps more, made up of injured and sick service personnel, medical staff, and a group of women and children.

The first attack came about half an hour after the sighting of the enemy when half a dozen Aichi dive-bombers hurtled down out of the sky. With the exception of the _Eurydice_ , which given her clear status as a hospital ship was unarmed, all the other vessels in the convoy hastily returned a barrage of fire. But in the ensuing engagement between the Japanese bombers and the convoy, the status of the _Eurydice_ afforded her no protection. None whatever. Within minutes, she had sustained three direct hits. These set her on fire, which rapidly spread out of control, the _Eurydice_ becoming a blazing inferno before listing severely to port, and settling by the head, she began to sink.

Ten minutes later, she was gone.

 **Author's Note:**

The view from the top of the steps of the Church of Our Lady in Monte is indeed breath taking.

Opened in 1891, throughout its long history, Reid's Hotel in Funchal has played host to British and European royalty, presidents, politicians, actors, and artists.

The transbordeur in Marseille, such a feature of the old port, was destroyed during the war.

Shophouses - are found in the historic centres of many towns and cities in south east Asia; consisting of a shop on the ground floor with living space above.

Tongkangs and twakows - wooden boats once used extensively for transporting goods on the Singapore River, along the coast of the mainland, and over to other nearby islands.

Raffles - the Raffles Hotel, founded in 1887, and, at the time of the story, the most luxurious hotel in Singapore. It is still in business today. Following the surrender of Singapore, it is said that Japanese soldiers encountered a group of hotel guests dancing one final waltz. Today, while some of Singapore remains as it was, given what happened here in 1942, along with the passage of over seventy years, the modern city is much altered from how it looked at the time of the story.

Batavia, the name of modern day Jakarta, and, at this time, capital of the Dutch East Indies.

During the Second World War, the unbelievable brutality and cruelty with which the Japanese treated captured Allied military personnel and civilians, men, women, and children, as well as their complete disregard for the provisions of the Geneva Convention, and which covered ships such as the _Eurydice_ , is well attested. While the _Eurydice_ is my own creation, what happened to her is not, and is based on the sinking of the _Centaur_ , a Blue Funnel Line vessel (all of which were named after figures of Greek mythology) being used as a hospital ship, clearly marked as such, but nonetheless sunk by the Japanese who still refuse to accept responsibility for this appalling tragedy and for what was, undoubtedly, a war crime.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

Death Of Innocence

 **Durian Strait, south of Singapore, 12th February 1942.**

On board the _Eurydice_ , the very last thing Simon Crawley saw, as he slipped beneath the frothing, filthy, oil stained waters, was the bridge collapsing and, as the wires supporting it snapped, the funnel toppling over in a shower of sparks and thick black smoke. Everything was on fire, he heard cries and screams, and then, thankfully, the surface of the sea closed over him, blotting out the horror of what was now unfolding.

" _Simon! Kick! Simon! Kick for the surface!"_

As the stern of the _Eurydice_ slipped beneath the waves, now under the water, Simon heard his brother Robert's voice calling to him as clearly as if it had been yesterday. He was a boy again, out on the lake at Downton, sailing with their grandfather. It was as they were coming about that the sudden, unexpected gust of wind caught the _Skylark_ and tipped her over; the second time this had happened to Robert and his grandfather but the first for Simon. Over went the dinghy, throwing all three into the water. Even though the _Skylark_ was close to the shore, within sight of the great house, it was an unnerving experience, the more so for Simon who so hated to get his head wet. Under he went, in the process swallowing several mouthfuls of the lake. Moments later, retching, gasping for air, arms flailing, he struggled frantically towards the gleam of sunlight above him. After what seemed an age, although it was less than a minute, his head broke through the surface of the lake. As he did so, Simon heard Robert calling to him, but found he was unable to see his brother, having become entangled in the wet folds of the mainsail, the heavy weight of the canvas enveloping him like a shroud, and forcing him once more back below the water.

So too, here, in the shark infested waters of the Durian Strait.

For as the _Eurydice_ went down, all manner of things now broke loose, among them a large tarpaulin, which, before the ship set sail from Singapore, had been hastily erected up on deck to provide a degree of shelter for some of those unable to be found accommodation down below in the overcrowded cabins and companionways within the vessel. Kicking for the surface, Simon found himself beneath the tarpaulin, felt the pull from the _Eurydice_ beginning to drag him down again as she began her descent to the ocean floor. Then from somewhere far beneath him, deep within the _Eurydice_ , something, perhaps a heavy bulkhead, must have given way and in the process sent up a huge column of air which propelled Simon at a rate of knots back towards the surface of the water, this time his head breaking through the waves, to one side of the tarpaulin.

Treading water, breathing in great lungfuls of fresh air, his face heavily stained with marine oil, turning his head, Simon looked about him; saw the rest of the convoy rapidly steaming away southwestwards. There was no likelihood the other ships would stop to pick up survivors from the _Eurydice._ To do so would be to make them sitting targets themselves. As if any confirmation was needed that the Japanese planes were still about, it came in the roar of an aircraft, emblazoned with red disc markings, sweeping in low out of the sun, spraying the sea, along with any survivors of the sinking, in its path, with several lethal bursts of machine gun fire, splattering the water with blood and bone, and staining it red, the sight of which caused Simon to vomit up the contents of his stomach, before diving below the tarpaulin in the nick of time, and so out of harm's way.

When next he surfaced, and cautiously so, the Japanese planes had gone.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, 15th February 1942.**

The news that Singapore had fallen to the Japanese had come like a bolt out of the blue and here at Downton Abbey, Matthew and Mary were horrified, with there being no word of what had become of Simon, one among some 80,000 thousand British and Australians who were now prisoners of the Japanese.

Just before the Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, began his solemn address to the nation, Matthew turned up the volume on the radio; then remained standing precisely where he was beside the fireplace, while outside yet another winter storm battered the ancient walls of the abbey.

" _Tonight I speak to you at home; I speak to you in Australia and New Zealand, for whose safety we will strain every nerve; to our loyal friends in India and Burma; to our gallant Allies, the Dutch and the Chinese; and to our kith and kin in the United States. I speak to you all under the shadow of a heavy and far-reaching military defeat. It is a British and Imperial defeat. Singapore has fallen. All the Malay Peninsula has been overrun…."_

While Churchill continued to wax lyrical about the British race showing their quality and their genius, that this was one of those moments when it could draw from the heart of misfortune the vital impulses of victory, and that the British must remember that they were no longer alone, here in the Drawing Room, his patriotic bombast, which some might have called stirring words, went unheeded. Matthew looked incredulously at Mary, while shaking his head in utter disbelief, at what they had all just heard, Robert turned to Saiorse.

Seated beside Edith, Friedrich said nothing. While his breeding and innate good manners, let alone compassion, would have prevented him from saying _I told you so_ , with Simon now either dead or in all likelihood a prisoner of the Japanese, now was certainly not the time to remind Matthew of the conversation they had had together here in this very room but a couple of evenings ago.

Even young Kurt, in the absence of Claire who along with Max had returned to London a day or so ago, who tonight was being helped with his jigsaw by Rebecca, as the last pieces fell into place, also remained silent; as if he too, aged all of nine years, sensed that something terrible had happened. He looked at his mother who put her forefinger to her lips. Kurt nodded; remained sitting where he was. Instead, it fell to Rebecca to ask the obvious question. She came to stand in front of her father over by the fireplace.

"Father? What about, Simon?" she asked, ashen faced. Matthew shook his head; drew her forward into his arms.

"I don't know, darling. None of us do. All we can hope is that he …"

" **Hope**? What hope can there be?" asked Mary bitterly, painfully aware that Simon must either now be dead or else a prisoner of the Japanese. Her rancour was made worse by the fact that she knew that in a day or so from now, Robert would be returning to active service with the RAF.

"How on earth Percival could have let this happen ..." began Matthew.

Of all of those gathered here tonight, Matthew alone knew Lieutenant General Arthur Percival, the British officer commanding in Singapore, who had just overseen the largest capitulation of British forces ever, when he had surrendered to the Japanese. Over twenty years earlier, in January 1921, Matthew had an unpleasant encounter with the man in Ireland when Percival, then but a major, had effectively ordered Matthew out of the country, and so prevented him continuing his search for what had become of Tom.

At this point, Edith stood up, swiftly crossed to where Mary was sitting, knelt down on the floor in front of her elder sister, enfolding Mary's hands within her own.

"Darling, I do understand how awful this must be, both for you and for Matthew but really, you mustn't give up hope. Not yet, anyway. After all, didn't we have ships out there in Singapore, evacuating our people? Perhaps Simon's on one of those".

"It's sweet of you to say so".

"Well, I'm sure that will be the truth of it. And anyway, aren't you forgetting he's a Crawley? He's a fighter. We all are. It'll take more than the Japanese to put paid to Simon! Believe me, darling he'll come through all of this, just like Robert did".

Robert smiled at his aunt.

"Thank you for that ringing endorsement! Aunt Edith's right, Mama. You mustn't give up on Simon. Not yet. I know if you asked him, Uncle Tom would tell you that Simon's a lot tougher than he looks".

"How would your Uncle Tom know that?" asked Mary, clearly surprised by the revelation.

Robert glanced up at his father; saw him shake his head.

"Father, given what's happened, don't you think Mama ought to know?"

"Ought to know what?"

"About how …"

"Barrow," said Matthew.

"By whom I assume you mean our unlamented, late butler?" asked Mary, her curiosity evidently now piqued.

Matthew nodded.

"Exactly so".

"And just what had Barrow to do with Simon?"

"You remember Simon's chum, Tristan, from York?"

"The solicitor's son? Yes".

"And you remember too, of course when the police came here making a nuisance of themselves with their enquires about both Friedrich and Max?"  
"Yes. From what you told me at the time, or so I recall, you couldn't understand how it was they knew so much about their arrival here in England or for that matter that they were staying here in the first place?"

"When, at the time, they probably should have been interned. Exactly so. Of course, I had my suspicions at the time …"  
"That … it was Barrow who tipped off the police?" asked Edith with realisation now dawning.

Matthew nodded in agreement.

"Precisely. But I couldn't prove it. And if it hadn't been for Simon and his pal Tristan … and for Tom, I doubt very much that I would ever have been able to do so".

Edith smiled. Trust darling Tom to have played his part in all of this. He could always be relied upon in a crisis, just as he had been so dependable all those years ago, in the aftermath of the explosion at the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin.

"At the time, you never explained it fully".

"Explained what?"  
"How it was that you prevented Max and myself from being arrested," said Friedrich.

"I called their bluff and pulled some strings. Tom helped in that too".

"Well, you can't just leave it there, Matthew. How on earth did you manage it? What exactly happened?"

"Both Tom and I knew that Max wouldn't have lasted a day in one of those damned internment camps. So, I told the police that both you and Max were accredited to the Swiss Embassy in London. You'll remember that, at the time, I was in the middle of trying to obtain replacement Swiss passports for the two of you in lieu of those you'd lost when the Lancastria went down?"

Friedrich nodded.

"Yes, but to say we were part of the Swiss legation ... what if enquiries had been made?"

"Well, if they had been, then most likely I'd have been arrested and sent to prison, Tom would have been expelled from the country, and you and dear Max would probably have been interned either here in Yorkshire or over on the Isle of Man which you both saw last back in the summer of 1936 when we were there for the TT! And in far less pleasant circumstances".

"So if the police had begun to make enquiries, we'd all have been ..."

"It was a calculated risk, Friedrich, I grant you, in Tom's own words _to be_ _sure._ But one that I believed to be worth the taking. The more so since I thought it extremely unlikely that the police would take the trouble to do any such thing. Make enquiries and so forth. And besides, having already bluffed my way through, quoting at them chapter and verse the provisions of the Aliens Act ..."

"Bluffed?"  
"I didn't have a copy of it with me! At least not here in the house, so, when the moment came, I asked Tom to fetch me down a book from off one of the upper shelves in the Library. I had to make do with _Persuasion_ by Jane Austen. Not that the police inspector saw it for what it was. God knows what on earth Tom thought, when I started quoting this provision and that section when, before me on the page were the doings of Anne Elliott and Frederick Wentworth! And then Tom played his own part, in making a great show of being magnanimously prepared not to report any of this in the Irish press ... Not of course that there was ever the slightest chance that he would do so but the police didn't know that".

Everyone, even Mary, laughed at this startling revelation.

"That was very resourceful of the two of you. But you still haven't explained how Barrow ... and Simon come into all of this".

"Well, as Edith said a few moments ago, I had my suspicions that it was Barrow who had tipped off the police ... about Friedrich and Max in the first place. But I couldn't prove it".  
"And Simon?"  
"Quite by chance, when Simon and his pal Tristan were in York, they saw Barrow and one of his ... acquaintances ... a sergeant in the military police, or so I learned later, coming out of a public house in the Shambles. Barrow didn't see either of the boys but they overheard him make mention of the Lancastria and Austrian relatives of ours staying here at Downton".

"But why?"

"All of this happened about the time we were reducing the staff here at Downton, something which Barrow was unwilling to accept. I suspect if that hadn't been the case then he would never have tried to stir up at hornets' nest about Friedrich and Max".

"And Simon?"

"He was very unpleasant to Simon".

" **Unpleasant**? How so? Whatever do you mean?"

"He made certain wild allegations - about Simon and his pal Tristan - not that was any veracity in them. He threatened Simon that he would come to me and spill the beans. Not that there were any beans to spill or the slightest truth in such disgusting suggestions in the first place; but then we all know precisely the kind of loathsome creature Barrow was". Matthew glanced at Mary; saw her nod her head.

"Then Simon confided in Tom ... what had happened, how Barrow had threatened him, about how Simon and Tristan had overheard Barrow's conversation with his soldier friend in the street in York So when Tom told me, what had taken place, knowing that if I confronted Barrow, he would simply deny it all, between the two of us, Tom and I set a trap to catch a sewer rat. And all I will say on that score is that had it not been for Simon, being very brave, it never would have worked. As it was, it did and when confronted, Barrow was left with no option other than to resign his position. I won't pretend that I was sorry to learn that he had done away with himself. The responsibility for that is his and his alone".

Mary nodded; realised that there was probably more to hear about the part that Simon had played in all of this but there was a moment for everything and now was not the time.

* * *

 **Westminster, London, 20th March 1942.**

"... and so giving both us, and the other Trustees, a very great deal to consider. I will, of course, write to you formally next week, outlining what we have discussed here this afternoon. Thank you, Lord Grantham".

Despite having held the title to the earldom of Grantham for some eleven years, even now, Matthew found it faintly ridiculous to be addressed thus, something Tom knew to be so. Before the war, when the Bransons were over at Downton for their annual summer visit, when he and Tom were playing their nightly frame of billiards, Matthew often found himself being ragged good naturedly by his Irish brother-in-law; Tom peppering their conversations with a sprinkling of tongue firmly in cheek remarks such as _Good shot, Your Lordship, Well played, Your Lordship,_ and so forth. Not that Matthew minded and took all of it in equally good part.

The Chairman now rose, held out his hand; Matthew did likewise. They shook hands. And, as they did so, from somewhere outside, the air raid siren began its mournful wail.

Somehow, thought Matthew, it seemed singularly appropriate.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, late afternoon, 21st March 1942.**

The muddy leather football landed with a dull thud at Mary's feet.

Distracted, as well she might be, given what she had just learned, for a moment or two, she scarcely seemed to see the ball for what it was. Then, at last realising, lifting her head, shading her eyes, looking across what once had been the South Lawn on which, recently, for the use of the boys from St. Dominic's, a pair of goalposts had been erected, followed by the marking out with whitewash of a series of neat, straight white lines, she saw running towards her, a small boy dressed in football kit.

On reaching her, the young boy stopped dead; stood tongue-tied before her, nervously eyeing the football at her feet. He was, thought Mary, no more than about eleven, and in both his looks and nervous demeanour, reminded her painfully of how Simon had been at that age. The boy remained silent and when still he made no attempt to recover what was so obviously his, Mary decided to take matters into her own hands.

Literally.

Ignoring her sciatica, bending forward, she reached down and picked up the decidedly muddy ball.

"To paraphrase the late Mr. Stanley, _yours, I presume_?" she asked with a considerable degree of forbearance.

The boy blinked in obvious confusion. Then, just as Simon used to do, suddenly he found his tongue.

"No, ma'am, **Mr. Harris** is our sports master. I mean yes, ma'am. The ball ... it's ours. Who's Mr. Stanley, ma'am?"

Mary bit back a pithy retort. Given the boy's age, it was hardly fair.

"Well you'd better have it back then, hadn't you?"

"Yes, please, ma'am! Thank you, ma'am" The boy smiled. Mary handed him the ball. Ma'am, indeed! Why, it made her sound like Queen Victoria.

A man, likewise dressed in football kit, appeared beside them; smiled hesitantly, clearly embarrassed by what had just occurred.

"I'm very sorry, Lady Grantham. That shouldn't have happened".

"Don't be. Mr. Harris, I presume". The man blinked, then nodded. _You haven't heard of Henry Morton Stanley_ _either_ , thought Mary, it being obvious that her deliberate choice of words had been just as lost on the sports master as they had been on the young boy who, clutching the football to him, had run back across the football pitch to re-join his friends.

"Yes, that's right. How did you know my name?"  
"No matter, said Mary. "No harm done".

"It's a beautiful place".

Mr. Harris nodded towards the abbey where the rays of the late afternoon sun had bathed the stonework of the South Front in a warm glow, gilding the stonework, turning all to gold, while the panes of the many windows flashed and sparkled in the sunlight, as if they were made of the finest crystal.

"Indeed it is".

"May I ask, has your family lived here long?"

"For some five hundred years".

"And five hundred more, I shouldn't doubt. Mr. Harris smiled.

"Perhaps. Maybe not," said Mary equivocally. She nodded, then turned away. She needed time to think.

* * *

 **Library, Downton Abbey, early afternoon, 14th April 1942.**

Here in the Library, the silence broken only by the ticking of the ornate, ormolu George II clock on the mantel piece, they sat facing each other across the large mahogany desk which had once been his father-in-law's, almost as though, they were a solicitor and his client, and which in a sense, thought Matthew, he supposed they were. He giving advice; she receiving it. Only, long ago, back before the Flood, when he had been a solicitor in practice in Manchester, had never even heard of Downton Abbey, his clients had been rather more amenable to the advice he had to offer than was the woman now seated opposite him, and who happened, also, to be his wife.

Today was April 14th, thirty years to the day when the Titanic had collided with the iceberg out in the icy vastness of the Atlantic Ocean and with what they had both been discussing at some length, Mary was presently experiencing a similar coldness, this time in the pit of her own stomach.

"No! Absolutely not. It's out of the question. I won't agree to it!" Mary's nostrils flared and her upper lip quivered.

All along, Matthew had known that telling her what he had to impart would not be easy. But it had to be said. More to the point, it had to be done.

"Mary, darling, we don't have a choice. There isn't any other way".

"I'd sooner burn it to the ground!"  
"Don't be ridiculous. Of course you wouldn't. Look, I know you're upset but ..."

"Is this because of Simon?" snapped Mary.  
"Darling, please! It has nothing at all to do with Simon. Even if he's alive, which I very much doubt ..."

Matthew stopped what he had been about to see on seeing the effect his words had on Mary. The colour seemed to have drained from her face and she had gone chalk white; was sitting bolt upright on her chair. Since the fall of Singapore some six weeks earlier, by common, tacit assent, never once had either Matthew or Mary voiced to the other what each knew to more than likely was the truth of it.

That Simon was dead.

* * *

 **Durian Strait, south of Singapore, 12th February 1942.**

When the _Eurydice_ went down, she did so very fast, so much so that there was no time at all to launch any of her lifeboats. However, as the ship sank, two of the life boats broke free, along with several damaged life rafts, and while these quickly sank, the life boats remained bobbing on the surface of the sea. Still treading water, Simon now saw that he was not alone, that there were indeed other survivors, even if but a handful of those who had been crammed on board the _Eurydice_ : men, women, and children, shouting, screaming, crying for help that would never come. Seeing one of the lifeboats floating not that far off, Simon began to swim towards it, although still suffering from the effects of the malaria which had laid him up in hospital, to reach it took him longer than he would have thought.

When at last he swum alongside, Simon found that there were other survivors aboard, a group of soldiers, one of whom helped pull Simon into the boat, a handful of nurses, along with several women and children, all of them, like himself, soaking wet, covered in oil, some of whom had been wounded by shrapnel or burned in the ensuing fire which had swept through the _Eurydice_.

As things turned out, Simon was the last of the survivors to reach the lifeboat and did so in the nick of time. The grey fin cresting the water close by, and spotted by one of the nurses, signalled the approach of the first of a school of sharks which, in a sickening frenzy of feeding, quickly made an end of the human remains floating among the wreckage of what little remained of the _Eurydice._

What had become of the other lifeboat, no-one seemed to know.

Thereafter, while two of the nurses did what they could for some of the less badly injured, applying makeshift bandages made from scraps of cloth torn from clothing, with his sailing skills learned on the lake at Downton standing him in good stead, notwithstanding his malaria, Simon had volunteered to take over the tiller.

With storm clouds gathering and a swell building, the huddle of humanity on board the lifeboat, floating on its own in the vastness of the ocean, was now at the mercy of the elements … and the Japanese.

* * *

 **Library, Downton Abbey, early afternoon, 14th April 1942.**

"I'm sorry, Mary. Really, I am. I shouldn't have said that".

Mary waved him into silence.

"Matthew, there's no need. Both of us know that there never was any real hope that Simon could be alive, not now, with the reports coming out of what happened when Singapore fell".

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Unconfirmed reports of the appalling treatment meted out to those captured by the Japanese in the Far East gave no reason for Matthew and Mary to believe that if, by some miracle, Simon had indeed survived the fall of Singapore, only to be taken prisoner, that he would remain alive for very long. And so far, the Japanese had provided no information whatsoever as to the identity of those whom they now held captive as POWs.

"It's the future of which I'm thinking, of Robert and Saiorse, the twins, and their little brother or sister".

The twins had been born early in March 1941, and Saiorse suspected that she was already expecting again. All being well, the baby would be born at the end of the year. Both Robert and she were delighted, and with he newly promoted to the rank of Squadron Leader and now based at RAF Scorton in the North Riding of Yorkshire, where, at least for the present, Robert was helping to train new pilots, when he had leave, Robert was able to travel back to Downton much more easily than when he had been based either at Hornchurch or Biggin Hill. It seemed that their enforced separation had not affected their relationship one iota; they were as much in love as they had always been - evidenced by what Saiorse herself now believed to be the case.

And yet, here at the abbey, Mary alone knew that something between Robert and Saiorse had changed. Quite what, she knew not, but she was determined to find out.

* * *

A short while later found Matthew and Mary standing in front of the finely detailed, scale model of the abbey, executed in wood, and commissioned by Robert before the Great War, from a firm of architects in York. It stood where it had always done, ever since it had been delivered, on a round table, in a large alcove, just off the main Library.

"Mary, darling, you may not believe this, but I have grown to love this house, as much as you do. We've lived here ever since we were married. Our four children were born here. So too, were Alexander and Sorcha. But ever since I began taking over the running of the estate from your father, the more so after I sank a considerable amount of my own money into it, for the last twenty years, this is the reality I have had to face with several thousands of pounds being spent each year, just to keep this building wind and weatherproof, in stonework, in timber, and in lead. Now I've set it on a secure financial footing, the money for the repairs has come from out of the profits the estate but more needs to be found each and every year, stretching on and into the future. We have to face facts. The days of these great houses, of the landed estates, are over. I know you'll think it terribly middle class of me to say it, but the reality is that with less and less in the way of disposable capital ... in other words, money, there is no possible way Downton can survive. Not unless you agree to what I suggested earlier".

"So you say, but what if you're wrong?"  
"What if I'm right? Come, there's something I need to show you".

* * *

At this great height, up here, at the very top of the great house, the wind moaned fitfully through the vast, open, dark expanse of the attics of the abbey. Having no need to visit them, along with the offices below stairs, this was the other area of the house, of which Mary herself had little knowledge; although she knew Matthew had been up here but a matter of days ago, from where he had emerged with his clothes and shoes dusty, his face begrimed, and cobwebs in his hair.

"So exactly what am I supposed to be looking at?"

Matthew didn't answer her directly.

"Burns found it when he came up here to survey what still needs doing by way of repairs to this side of the house".

"Burns?"  
"The architect. From Stonegate, in York. It was his firm that made the model downstairs. Just before the war, I commissioned Burns to make a thorough survey of the abbey. Since then, he's been working his way all around the place, seeing what needs to be done. And now, what with the war there are other demands being made on him, from all over the place. In fact, the Dean and Chapter of the cathedral in York have retained his services too, but that's another story. As far as Downton is concerned, he's been advising me if anything needs to be done and, when repairs have been deemed necessary, then they've been put in hand".

Mary nodded; knew what Matthew said was true enough.

"Just exactly where are we now?"  
"On the north side of the house. If there was a window to look out of, you'd be able to see Hawkstone Ridge".

"You said that ... Burns ... found something. Found what, exactly?"

This time, Matthew didn't answer her at all. Instead, he held up the flickering hurricane lantern which had served to guide the both of them through the unlit attics until they were standing where they were now; Matthew drew the lamp slowly along a length of the wall precisely at the point where the ends of the huge timbers of the roof met the top of the masonry.

" **This** ," he said expressively.  
" **This**? Matthew, I don't see what you mean ..." All Mary could see before her was an expanse of cobwebbed, dusty, dark stonework, beaded with a slight sheen.

Matthew said nothing. Instead, he simply wiped the tips of the fingers of his free hand along the stonework and held them up for Mary's inspection. By the light of the lamp, she saw that they were now filthy dirty; black and wet.

" **Damp** ," Matthew said expressively.

"Damp" repeated Mary tonelessly. "You brought me all the way up here to show me a patch of damp? Matthew, darling, old houses are often damp. You've said so yourself, several times, about some of the estate cottages down in the village, being riddled with it. And if ever Tom's in earshot, he then gets on his high horse, moaning about the _bloody_ _aristocracy_!"

Matthew smiled.

"Tom's less vocal about that sort of thing than he used to be".

"Perhaps he's mellowing with age". Mary laughed.

"Maybe. But what you said, a minute ago, about the cottages down in the village, that's true enough. And **this** is what happens when it's not dealt with. When nothing's done about it".

"Well, then if it needs repairing, why isn't something being done about it?"

"Because, Burns has only just found it. That's why".

"So, presumably now that he's told you ..."

"Repairs will be put in hand? Yes, that's right. Or rather they would be, if ..."

"If?" echoed Mary.

"If it was feasible to do so".

" **Feasible to do so**? I don't understand. Surely, anything can be repaired?"  
"In principle, yes".

"So, why is this any different?"  
"Because it's only since all the rubbish was cleared out of here, some of it in aid of the war effort, that Burns has been able to have a really good look at this part of the house. You see, from the outside, you can't even tell that there's a problem".  
"But there is?"

Matthew nodded.

"There is. And it's serious".

"What do you mean, _serious_?"  
"The damp. Or rather what it's done. According to Burns, this must have been going on for a very long while".

"What has?"  
"This side of the house gets all the weather; everything that Mother Nature can throw at us, especially in the winter. More particularly rain and snow. Burns thinks the water's been seeping in for years".

"And?"

"As a result, over its entire length, the top of this wall, and several courses down, is soaking wet. What's even worse is that as a result, the ends of most of the beams, these huge timbers holding up the roof, where they meet with the wall, are now rotten. Here, I'll show you". So saying, Matthew broke off a small piece of wood from the beam nearest to him, which he proceeded to crumble into dust between his fingers. "I expect that bad spell of weather earlier in the year, just after Robert got back from Gibraltar, didn't help matters".

"So what has to be done?"

"All of the roof on the north front has to be completely stripped, then the timbers removed, the affected courses of masonry taken down and rebuilt, the beams replaced, or where possible salvaged with the rotten wood being cut out and new spliced in, the slates relaid, and all made good".

"Well, even to me, that sounds like a very great deal of work".

"It will be".  
"So, what is it that you're **not** telling me?"

"That with the war, there's a shortage of both men and materials. More to the point, Mary, we simply don't have the money to put any of this right, and which is why ..."

* * *

 **Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Ireland, 6th April 1942.**

As her own pregnancy advanced, this time, Sybil found that she tired much more easily than she had done before. But then neither she nor Tom were getting any younger, which was why this evening they had come upstairs to bed rather earlier than they did normally; were sitting reading, she a letter from Danny, and Tom, one from Matthew.

"Oh, honestly!" Re-reading Danny's latest letter for the third time, Sybil giggled. "He spoils her, he really does. Tom, just listen to this ..."

"If it's the part about Danny buying Carmen that huge bunch of flowers from the market in Funchal, I've already read it for myself".

"Your son knows how to treat a woman, although I can't think why!"  
"Are you saying that I don't?"

"When was the last time you bought me any flowers?"

Tom chose to ignore her question. Instead, he yawned, laid aside Matthew's letter, took off his reading glasses, and switched out the light.

"We've only his word that he did so. Besides, the climate out there is much more favourable ... for growing flowers!" He chuckled and settled himself down.

"That word ..." began Sybil from the other side of the bed.

"What word?" Tom sighed; it sounded as though sleep would be at a premium tonight.

"The one Matthew used in his letter".

" _Inalienable_?"

"Yes, that was it ... What does it mean?"

"Darlin', if something is inalienable, then it's sacrosanct, absolute; like my right to a decent night's sleep!"  
"Meaning what if you please?"

Tom turned and buried his head under the pillow. "That's what Matthew's trying to achieve ... for Downton," came his now muffled reply.

* * *

 **Sheepwash Farm, Shute Barton, Devon, 2nd May 1942.**

Beneath the sloping parchment painted ceiling of what, here at the farm, when her late mother had been alive, had been her parents' bedroom, Claire lay in the double bed, watching Max sleeping peacefully in his blue and white striped pyjamas. Apart from one bad attack, just after they were married, and several minor episodes of bleeding, for the last nine months or so, Max had been very healthy; although both of them knew that it could not last. That sooner or later ... From down in the yard, interrupting her thoughts, there came the sound of her brothers Harold and Frank herding the cows into the shippen for milking.

Claire returned to her consideration of Max.

Lying there beside her, undeniably good looking and a fine figure of a young man, Max appeared to be a picture of health. It was so very hard to believe that there was anything at all wrong with him. It was equally hard to believe that they had been married for nearly two years; that Max was still only just nineteen. He seemed so much older than friends of hers who were the same age. Not in a stuffy sort of way; Max was always so, to coin a phrase of his late grandmother's, _so much fun_. And to think that all of this had come about because Danny, now married, with two children of his own, and a third on the way, living in distant Madeira, had the misfortune to have been beaten up and thrown off a train at Wrangaton station where Claire's brother Edward worked as a signalman.

The previous evening, out in the scullery, helping her father with washing up, while Max chatted with her brothers, Dad had asked her bluntly if she had any regrets.

Claire's reply had been prompt.

None at all.

Eyeing Max, she smiled again.

Actually, no, that wasn't quite true.

She had one regret.

That they would never have children of their own.

Not for an instant, did Claire ever doubt that they **could** have children. Given her own and Max's appetite for that side of their relationship, she knew that in the normal run of things, she would have been expecting a child long ago. But the risk was far too great. So they had been very careful; had taken precautions. Even so, there had been that scare a couple of months ago when she thought something might have gone awry. But, in the end, it turned out that she was just late. Perhaps, when they were older, they might adopt ...

* * *

 _"Claire, are you and Max going to have a baby?" had asked Marian guilelessly over supper._

 _"Are you? **Really**?" asked Maggie excitedly._

 _"Mind yer ruddy manners, the pair of yer! What sort of question is that to be askin' yer sister?"_  
 _"I don't mind Dad, really. The fact is Marian, Max and I are too busy at the moment to think of starting a family. Perhaps, some day, when the war is over"._

* * *

 _When the war is over._ Claire sighed; toyed idly with the fabric of her cambric nightdress. Recalled to mind Max's wry comment when, on coming up here to bed last night, he had seen her nightdress and his pyjamas lying neatly folded on top of the pillows of the double bed.

* * *

"You don't seriously propose that we wear those ridiculous things, do you?"

Up in London, when they were in bed in their flat in Kensington, more often than not they slept naked.

"I rather think we'd shock my father if we don't".

Max grinned broadly; slipped his arm around her slender waist.

"I didn't think he was joining us!"

"No, silly! He isn't. But you know how old-fashioned he is. And, besides, if he looks in to say goodnight, as well he might ... Anyway, it's not like it is in the flat. Here, the bathroom's along the passage. Past my brothers' bedroom. Equally, if the girls were to come in ..." Claire smiled. "By the way, you know ... both of them ... they're very taken with you!"

A slow, smug smile spread across Max's face.

"Really?"

"And don't pretend you didn't notice!"

* * *

Apart from the passing awkwardness of their question about babies, from the way Claire's two sisters, Marian and Margaret - Maggie - had been looking at Max during supper the previous evening, casting him surreptitious glances, blushing and giggling when they found his eyes upon them, or when he asked politely if they wanted him to pass them the potatoes, or the salt or the pepper, something their own three brothers did rarely if at all, they were very much taken with their good looking brother-in-law.

As for Claire's father, having had his mind set at rest by Max's mother, Bert Barton seemed well satisfied with his son-in-law, saying only that if Max failed to treat his daughter right - at which Claire and Max both exchanged amused glances - he would have his father-in-law to answer to. Thereafter, with all the family seated round the long table in the kitchen for supper, in honour of Max and Claire's visit, Bert announced that he had opened a bottle of his late wife's elderflower wine with which to toast the happy couple; although Frank, Marian and Maggie had to make do with water. Then, with the toast over, even though it had been months ago and eating well did nothing to stave off an episode of bleeding, Bert said that he knew that Max had been ill, and, having proceeded to fill his empty plate with several thick slices of cold ham, along with a generous helping of potatoes, boiled cabbage, and parsnips, told his son-in-law that he needed building up, which given the fact that Max was a strapping lad was rather ridiculous, and to tuck in.

To begin with, Claire's three brothers, Harold, Edward, and Frank, hadn't known what to make of the young Austrian who had captured the heart of their eldest sister, with all of them standing up every time Max came into the room, calling him _zur_ when speaking to him, and ending all of their sentences with the very same word. Until that was, having asked Claire what they meant by it, learning it was _sir,_ Max had told all three of them that while he was sure it had been kindly meant, would they please stop. His Christian name was Max and that was how he wished to be addressed.

* * *

"Jealous of your sisters, are you?"  
"Do I have any reason to be?"

Max laughed; knew Claire spoke only in jest. Marian was just eleven. And Maggie only nine.

"Perhaps. While you were with your father, they asked if they could kiss me goodnight!"

"Max!"

He chuckled.

"I know. I told them no. Besides, if I kiss anyone but you, I'd have to be mad!" Slipping off his jacket, Max hung it on the hook on the back of the door.

"I'm very glad to hear you say so!"

He turned back to her.

"So, tell me about these friends of yours, the ones we're meeting in Exeter the day after tomorrow ..."

"Later," she whispered as, having placed a chair behind the door, standing before him, she unbuttoned his waistcoat and began loosening his tie.

Seeing the chair, placed so as to prevent anyone barging unannounced into the bedroom, recognising the look she was now giving him and what she had in mind, Max couldn't help himself. Said hurriedly in a hushed whisper:

"But what about your father? Didn't you say he might ..."  
"Oh! I thought I'd told you. He came up to bed a while ago!"

"Claire!"

A moment later, the light in the room went out.

* * *

 **The Globe Hotel, Exeter, Devon, 11.00pm, 3rd May 1942.**

The evening Max and Claire had spent in Exeter, meeting up with several of her old friends, in the panelled room of the Globe Hotel passed off very well indeed. That neither Max or Claire drank very much - with his condition allowing himself to become intoxicated was singularly unwise - and also because in the morning, yet again, they had a long day ahead of them, resuming their train journey back up to London, and so called it a night comparatively early on, did nothing to mar the proceedings.

Now, in the privacy of their bedroom, both pleasurably naked, bathed in moonlight, he standing behind and with his arms tightly about her, looking down from the window of their third storey bedroom on the dark bulk of the magnificent fifteenth century cathedral, impulsively, Max hugged Claire to him.

"Claire, mein Liebling, you mean everything to me. I love you so very, very much," he whispered softly.

"And I love you too, Max. I didn't think it possible that anyone could be so happy".

At her utterance, something like a smothered sob escaped Max's throat. Without further ado, sweeping Claire up in his arms, he carried her to the waiting bed.

* * *

 **Crawley House, Downton, Yorkshire, 1.00am, 4th May 1942.**

For some strange reason, Edith found herself unable to sleep.

So as not to disturb Friedrich, she eased herself carefully out of bed. Slipping on her dressing gown, she opened the door and, having crossed the landing, looked in on young Kurt, who she found to be fast asleep. He lay sprawled on his tummy, hugging his pillow, with Hope lying on the floor beside his bed. While by rights, the dog should have been sleeping in her basket in the kitchen, Edith hadn't the heart to disturb her. Instead, satisfied that everything was, more or less, as it should be, smiling, she went down for a glass of water.

On her way back upstairs, Edith paused by the tall window which looked directly down onto the rear garden of the house; saw that outside all was bathed in a pale, almost ethereal light, everything as visible to her as if it had been midday and not but an hour after midnight.

 _Bomber's moon_ , Edith thought.

Still, she took comfort from the fact that over the last few months, the air raids on London had lessened considerably and Max and Claire were now living in Kensington, as opposed to Whitechapel. In any event, they had gone down to Devonshire for a few days, for Max to meet properly with Claire's father as well as her brothers and sisters. So, Edith was not unduly concerned for their safety.

And yet, despite all of this being the case, although she knew that Friedrich would have told her that she was being foolish, Edith sensed a presentment of impending disaster.

Something awful was about to happen.

* * *

 **Somewhere over England, 1.30am, 4th May 1942.**

On board the Junckers 88, the navigator nodded, almost casually, to his pilot. Having followed the course of the estuary of the river inland from the coast, along with all the other nineteen aircraft in their group, they were now directly overhead of their intended target:

Exeter.

 **Author's Note:**

For Matthew's encounter with the odious Major Percival, see "Home Is Where The Heart Is". Opinions are divided as to whether Percival alone was culpable for the loss of Singapore.

The Japanese were completely indifferent about providing the Allies with accurate information regarding the identities of the 300,000 Allied nationals, both military and civilian, whom they eventually held captive. The initial lists did not begin to be made available by the Japanese until May 1942 and were, and remained, woefully inadequate.

In 1942, allegedly in retaliation for the RAF's bombing of the historic city and port of Lubeck on the Baltic coast of Germany, the Luftwaffe targeted several of Britain's historic cities in what came to be know as the Baedeker Raids. The raid on Exeter was devastating.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

The Old Order Changeth

While several of you have commented favourably in reviews and PMs that I have not shied away from portraying the realities of war, I should warn you that the end of this particular chapter is extremely unpleasant.

The Irish Chauffeur

 **Somewhere off the coast of Sumatra, Dutch East Indies, morning, 12th February 1942.**

In fact, the threatening storm never broke but, given their shortage of fresh water - all they had between them was what was they had found contained in one small jerry can, eked out in a couple of battered tin cups passed around the lifeboat - it might have been better if it had. The swell in the ocean also gradually subsided, leaving the sea as flat as a millpond, the calm disturbed only by the slow passage of the lifeboat across its leaden surface and a curious rasping sound coming from beneath the keel, caused by sharks rubbing their backs along the bottom of the hull.

Quite just how far they had come, although, thought Simon, _drifted_ , was a better word to chart the slow progress of the lifeboat from the point where the _Eurydic_ e had gone down, taking with her to a watery grave God knows how many poor souls, to where they were now, wherever that might be, was impossible to tell.

In the aftermath of the sinking, the chill of early morning had soon given way to a scorching hot day. Fierce sunlight glared off the surface of the sea and, with little or no means of protecting themselves from the searing heat of the sun's rays, the three dozen or so on board the lifeboat, the dying, the injured, and the unharmed, sweated and sweltered; the intensity of the heat making everyone's head pound, their faces soon beginning to blister under the relentless onslaught of both the sun and the salt laden air.

* * *

Firing the two flares, without being certain of the nationality of the approaching aircraft - was it one of theirs or one of ours - proved to be a serious mistake, but running short of water, with no knowledge as to exactly where they were or how far they were from land, they had no choice but to do as they had done.

When they had first seen the aeroplane, to begin with, having then fired the flares, those on board the lifeboat were reconciled to the fact that they hadn't been seen. Then an excited shout went up from the bow, that there, over on the western horizon, the aeroplane was now changing course, was swinging around, and was flying directly towards them. But then, relief that they had been seen turned quickly to horror, for, as the plane soared directly overhead, emblazoned clearly on the fuselage, they saw the red roundel of the enemy.

The bomber was Japanese.

Banking round, the Aichi came in at a rate of knots from the east, levelling off, skimming low over the surface of the sea, opening fire on the pitiful huddle of men, women, and children in the lifeboat. With bullets raking the surface of the ocean, everyone who was able to do, and there were several too badly injured even to move, threw themselves flat in the bottom of the boat, although what protection it would afford them remained to be seen.

With its equilibrium suddenly disturbed, the lifeboat lurched, and while paradoxically this helped to shield those on board from the hail of bullets, seated at the stern, Simon lost his balance, found himself falling backwards over the transom, and into the sea. As he went under the water, he felt the current begin to pull him away from the boat, knowing that if he drifted off, he wouldn't have the strength to swim back. Breaking the surface, Simon saw the painter trailing from the bow. Grasping hold of it firmly, ducking under the water out of the way of the hail of bullets, Simon hurriedly tied the rope around his waist. Underwater, still holding his breath, emerging out of the murky darkness, coming straight at him, Simon saw the gaping maw of a huge shark.

* * *

 **Village Hall, Downton, West Riding, Yorkshire, morning, 4th May 1942.**

"So, when you're quite ready, daaarling. From the top again, if you please".

Down at the Village Hall, up on stage, Edith nodded and smiled sweetly at the man now seated on the chair in front of her on the floor below; the one with the decided penchant, some might say affectation, for wearing a natty array of colourful silk scarves and a grey fedora by Borsalino. Privately, however, she was seething. _Darling_ indeed! No-one ever called her that except members of her own family.

What was more, this was supposed to be an amateur staging of J M Barrie's _Peter Pan_ , organised by the local Evacuee Committee, designed to lift the spirits of everyone hereabouts in these trying times and to help bring together the villagers and all of the evacuees. And not an exacting West End production to rival Noel Coward's _Blythe Spirit_ which, despite the Blitz and the war, was at this present moment in time, drawing record audiences at the Duchess Theatre up in London.

* * *

Most of the parts, such as those of Peter himself, of Wendy, of Tinkerbell, the Pirates, Tiger Lily, the Indians, as well as the Lost Boys, were being played by children, those from the village school, both resident and evacuee, as well as some of the boys from St. Dominic's residing up at the abbey.

However, as all of them involved in the play, both young and old, soon found out to their cost, the flamboyant Gregory Cuthbertson was a perfectionist. Although, if the truth be told, at this precise moment, Edith could think of several other choice words to describe him, not only in English, German, and French, but also in several obscure Arab dialects as well, although admittedly none of them were suitable for use in polite company. Quite why on earth Edith had agreed to take part in all of this, she couldn't possibly begin to imagine.

Well, yes, actually, she could. Only too well.

It had been to please dear little Kurt who, along with his evacuee friend Isaac Solomon, had both landed roles in the play; Kurt as The Crocodile, the nemesis of the dastardly Captain Hook, ably played by Mr. Mainwaring the local butcher, and Isaac as Michael Darling. All had been progressing more or less to plan until the sudden and unexpected departure of Mrs. Lorna Fitzsimmons from Downton bound for Scotland. Mrs. Fitzsimmons, who had been cast to play Mrs. Darling, had endured several confrontations with Gregory Cuthbertson and then finally, she had decided that enough was enough; let it be known, to one and all, that she was leaving for Scotland, which was, she said, about as far away as she could get from Gregory without leaving the country. And which, of course, for the present time, on account of the war, was not an option. So, Scotland, and more particularly Stirling, where there resided Lorna's elder sister Morag, had to suffice.

Now, with the loss of Mrs. Fitzsimmons, here in Downton, the whole production of _Peter Pan_ had been thrown into complete and utter disarray, not to say jeopardy. There seemed to be no-one else who was prepared to take on the role at such short notice. Until that was, a tearful young Kurt, with the papier mâché head and the alarm clock of his crocodile costume both tucked firmly under his arm, had explained to his mother that the play was likely to be cancelled. As a result, unable ever to deny Kurt anything, the more so since their shared adventures fleeing the Germans across war torn France and down into Spain in the summer of 1940, Edith had agreed to step in and assume the role. In fact, for those living at Crawley House, it could be said that the production had turned into something of a family affair, for, when the idea of it had been first mooted, Friedrich had gamely agreed to play the part of Mr. George Darling.

The family's theatrical involvement was shortly made complete when Honey, the golden Retriever, belonging Mrs. Sitwell who kept the draper's shop in the High Street quite unexpectedly gave birth to a litter of six puppies. This now caused yet a further problem as, in the absence, not surprisingly, of there being a Newfoundland in the village, Honey, being of an even temperament, had been lined up to play the part of Nana, the Darling children's canine nurse. It was then that young Kurt had a sudden flash of inspiration. If both his parents were now playing the parts of Mr. and Mrs. Darling, then surely ... Hope could stand in for Nana ... and which, she duly did.

* * *

As to the extended family's reaction to Edith treading the boards, that had been predominantly positive.

When she had let it be known in one of her breezy, chatty letters written to Sybil over in Ireland, just what it was she was doing and why, Sybil had replied, saying that she thought it to be an absolute hoot and gave the venture her blessing. Said too, that had it not been for the war and her advancing pregnancy, along with young Dermot, both she and Tom would have been there in the Village Hall, seated in the front row on opening night, cheering on both her elder sister and the other members of the family taking part.

Ever since the bombing of the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin, way back in June 1919, Tom could always be relied upon to give his whole hearted support to whatever it was Edith chose to do; now gave the nod to her dramatic endeavours too. That said, with his tongue firmly in his cheek, Tom also asked in passing, if a career in Hollywood now beckoned. Did Edith by any chance need an agent? He would be happy to oblige. Said that if that was so, the likes of Bette Davis, Claudette Colbert, Greer Garson, and Katharine Hepburn would all need to look to their laurels.

Up at the Big House, despite all the other demands being made upon his time, Matthew had been equally supportive, especially since Rebecca was acting as prompter and helping backstage painting scenery and so forth, while young Emily was out gamely delivering posters on her pony around both the village and the estate. Not to be out done, so as to distract herself from her own advancing pregnancy, with a return to nursing for the time being out of question, Saiorse had offered to help her uncle, aunt, and young cousin all practice their lines. Although, in reality, this could only be said to involve Uncle Friedrich and Aunt Edith, for as everyone knows, whatever else they may be, crocodiles are decidedly un-talkative creatures.

For her part, while she had been quite prepared to sing in public to entertain the troops convalescing up at the abbey during the Great War, Mary thought the present foray into amateur dramatics to be a step too far. In her opinion, it did nothing for the standing of the family in the locality. Indeed, quite the reverse. So, with everything else falling apart, standards needed to be upheld. And Mary had made the point of saying so.

Now, had it not been for the fact that everyone in the family knew that she was distraught not only over what had become of Simon who, following the fall of Singapore, three months earlier, was assumed now to be either a prisoner of the Japanese or else dead, but also Matthew's plans for the estate, she and Edith might well have come to verbal blows.

* * *

 **The Globe Hotel, Cathedral Yard, Exeter, Devon, 1.50am, 4th May 1942.**

Both of them fast asleep in each other's arms, the first Max and Claire knew that anything at all was wrong was when the first of several enormous explosions shattered all the glass in their bedroom windows.

Fortunately, so as to prevent splintering, the glass had been well taped and, with the curtains tightly closed, along with the fact the two of them were snuggled together underneath the bedclothes, served to shield Max and Claire from harm, thus preventing either from being hit by lethal shards of flying glass which otherwise could have caused serious and, given Max's haemophilia, in his case, fatal injuries. In that split second they were both instantly awake and scrambling, naked, out of bed. Only then did they hear the mournful wail of the air raid siren which, as it faded, was replaced directly overhead by the menacing drone of aircraft engines low in the sky, followed almost at once by a thunderous blast, then the crump of yet more and more explosions, and a sudden and prolonged crash of falling masonry.

"Mein Gott!" yelled Max, scrabbling for his pyjama bottoms. "Claire! Liebling! Are you all right?" Beyond the end of their bed, the bedroom curtains billowed inwards in the draught caused by the huge series of explosions, while from outside there came the sounds of further repeated and enormous detonations as from the darkened sky above, the German bombers continued with their deliberate destruction of the heart of the historic city of Exeter.  
"Yes, I think so".

"Danke Gott!"

"What on earth ..."  
"We have to get out! Now! The Germans ... they're bombing Exeter!"

"In Heaven's Name why?"

"It doesn't matter **why!** They **are**!"

Instinctively, Claire rolled over in the bed, snapped on the bedside light, only to find that nothing happened, and realised that the electricity supply must have failed. In the cloying darkness of the room, both of them struggled hurriedly into whichever of their clothes they could find; then stumbled for the door, only to find that it wouldn't open. Outside, beyond the walls of the hotel, with hundreds of flares on miniature parachutes raining down on the city from out of the blackness of the night sky, the whole of Exeter was now bathed in an eerie greenish glow which, in an instant, changed into a hellish inferno of fiery red and orange flames.

* * *

 **Village Hall, Downton, Yorkshire, morning, 4th May 1942.**

Up on stage, Edith sought to compose herself.

Dealing with collapsed trenches, surviving sudden sandstorms, obtaining excavation permits from corrupt Iraqi officials in distant Mesopotamia, let alone fending off the unwanted attentions of an Arab chieftain who, back in 1924, had wanted Edith for his wife - he already had four - and only ceased his endeavours to claim her for his own when darling Friedrich had made it perfectly clear that while unmarried, Edith was already spoken for, were as nothing when compared with having to put up with the histrionics of Mr. Cuthbertson.

Now, as to Gregory, perhaps a little more should be said by way of explanation.

He had come to Downton, and more particularly Ripon, in the wake of all the other evacuees; of an indeterminate age, an erstwhile dealer in antiques in Chelsea, who had found _the bombing too insufferable for words, daaarling. The noise, the dust, and the dirt. Absolutely dreadful, daaarling. I couldn't stand it a moment longer. So when Mother Dear said she needed me, I dropped everything and caught the first train north._

Not of course that it had been the first train north.

Nor the second.

Nor even the third.

Nor the one after that.

And given the fact that Gregory's aged mother was, and had been for sometime, in a Nursing Home in Harrogate, bedridden, senile, and unable to speak, quite how she had managed to perform the feat of summoning him to her bedside in the first place was a matter for some degree of local speculation. But then dear Gregory was rather prone to dramatic exaggeration and his choice of Ripon in the West Riding of Yorkshire, to see out the war, may have had rather more to do with him owning a house in the city, than any feigned concern for his ageing, decidedly dotty mama.

* * *

Entering, _stage right_ , in the guise of Mrs. Darling, Edith was about to begin the scene in the nursery, which involved tucking both Michael and John into bed. Glancing up, she saw Hilda Braithwaite, who came in several days a week at Crawley House to clean, standing at the back of the Village Hall, indicating that she needed to speak with her mistress urgently.

Ignoring Gregory's indignant howls of protest, Edith immediately broke off what she was doing, stepped quickly from the stage, and hurried down the length of the room to speak with Hilda, to learn that, over at Crawley House, she was wanted on the telephone.

* * *

 **Crawley House, Downton, Yorkshire, afternoon, 4th May 1942.**

Naturally, both Friedrich and Edith were absolutely appalled, but for the present they resolved to say nothing to Kurt about what they had been told.

From what Claire's father had said on the telephone less than an hour ago, it seemed that Edith's presentment late last night, of impending disaster had come true. In the early hours of the morning, just after she had gone back to bed, the Germans had bombed Exeter. The damage wrought on a city, for the most part a maze of narrow, winding streets, and which occupied a relatively small area of land, had been terrible; the result being widespread devastation and many, many casualties.

In a halting voice, Bert Barton had explained that Claire and Max had broken their journey back up to London, spending the evening in Exeter, meeting up with several of Claire's old friends who had not seen her since before her marriage and who therefore had not met Max; the two of them then staying the night there in a hotel before travelling up to the capital this morning. But now, most of the historic heart of Exeter had been reduced to a smoking ruin, with well over two hundred, men, women, and children killed, including elderly patients trapped in their beds in two wards of the City Hospital, as well as many hundreds more injured. There were also those who had vanished without trace and who were, at least for the present, being treated by the police as missing persons, among them both Max and Claire of whom, since they parted from their friends the previous evening, no word had been heard. Ominously, the Globe Hotel where they had both been staying, had been completely gutted by fire, and was now nothing more than a burned out shell.

Up at the abbey, the news that darling Max and Claire had been in Exeter when it was bombed and were now listed among the missing, was met with abject consternation and utter disbelief.

But whether Schönborn or Crawley, all any of them could do now, was wait for further news.

And none had any illusions as to what that well might be.

* * *

 **South Street, Exeter, Devon, 2.15am, 4th May 1942.**

Along with a terrified gaggle of other guests from the Globe Hotel, including an off-duty policeman who had been staying there and who, with a member of the staff had helped to force open the door to their bedroom from out on the landing, for once heedless of Max's condition, both Claire and he ran pell-mell down the darkened street, the street lamps extinguished on account of the blackout, in a desperate search to find the nearest public air raid shelter. Beneath their pounding feet, the very ground shook with the force of repeated explosions. The air was thick with smoke, peppered with a blizzard of white hot cinders from the incendiaries, lit by lurid sheets of flame, while from every direction came the tortured sounds of collapsing buildings, of breaking glass, splintering woodwork, and the repeated thud of falling masonry.

As they reached the end of the street and turned the corner, the force of the next explosion lifted Claire clean off her feet and threw her hard against a brick wall. Max who was but a fraction behind her was shielded from the blast but, in an instant, totally disregarding of his own self, hair singed, begrimed, covered in dust and dirt, he was down on his knees beside her on the rubble strewn pavement, holding her in his arms, while all about them Exeter burned.

* * *

 **Sidwell Street, Exeter, 3.00am, 4th May 1942.**

Here, down in the public air raid shelter on Sidwell Street, the bombing seemed even more terrifying than it had been above ground, as the sound of it was so much more magnified, the successive explosions thundering overhead, echoing in all directions, every bomb seeming to explode directly above the shelter or just outside the closed door. Inside, the air was foetid from the stench of people's bodies, the reek of cigarette smoke, and the smell of stale urine and worse from the galvanised buckets which served as rudimentary toilets. Given the large numbers who had sought refuge in here, as well as intensity of the fires raging above, it was also very hot. Even so, seated on the wooden bench, Claire huddled against Max, his arm placed protectively around her hunched shoulders.

"Does it still hurt?" he asked softly.

Claire nodded silently, still cradling her left wrist with her right hand.

"Not too much. A dull ache. Even so, I think it must be fractured".

Max gently kissed the top of her head.

"When this is over, the first thing we'll do is find a doctor and let him take a look at you".

Another huge blast now shook the shelter; terrified, people screamed, the lights flickered, and one went out.

"God, this is an awful time to be alive!" cried Claire.

"No, no!"

"It is! It is!"

"Hush now, Liebling," soothed Max. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"What?"  
"If it wasn't for the war, we would never even have met".

* * *

 **Somewhere off the coast of Sumatra,** **Dutch East Indies,** **morning, 12th February 1942.**

Tom Branson had always been a good judge of character and Robert's comment to his mother that Uncle Tom knew better than any of them that his nephew Simon Crawley was a lot tougher than he looked was now proven to be the case, partly because this in itself was true enough but also because self preservation is the most basic of all human instincts.

With nothing with which to defend himself, Simon did what came naturally. He punched the shark hard on its nose. Startled, the shark veered away, circled, and then came back, only to receive another hard punch. Again the shark moved off. Above the water, the crew of the Japanese bomber had done their worst and the plane flew off. Realising that the firing had now stopped, keeping a weather eye out for the shark, Simon quickly pulled himself along the painter until he reached the boat where he found himself dragged unceremoniously back on board.

And, while Simon found the lifeboat was riddled with bullet holes, miraculously, no-one on board it had been hit.

* * *

The keel of the lifeboat bumped gently, grated against the beach, and then finally came to rest. Since Simon's earlier encounter with the shark, two others on board, a badly injured soldier and a little girl had both died, their bodies simply dumped overboard and left to drift; there being no alternative. Space in the lifeboat was at a premium and in the heat, out here in the Tropics, dead bodies soon begin to decompose.

Through bloodshot eyes, squinting against the harsh glare of the midday sun, his face sunburnt, his lips cracked and parched, Simon could see that, overhead, the cloudless sky was a painful blue, the white sand sparkling in the sunlight, and that the gently rising, curving beach, in either direction as far as the eye could see, was backed by a dense belt of tall palm trees. From somewhere towards the bow of the lifeboat, another of the badly injured, a man, moaned, could be heard asking if he was going to die. This apart, save for the sound of the waves breaking on the strand, all was quiet.

Deceptively so.

* * *

 **Crawley House, Downton, Yorkshire, evening, 5th May 1942.**

For the Schönborns, the telephone call made by Max from a public telephone box in Exeter, late on Tuesday evening, letting his parents know that both he and Claire were safe, albeit she had a fractured wrist, ended more than a day of worry and torment for everyone in the family. With what had been their hotel now nothing more than a blackened shell, accommodation being scarce, they were staying in a cheap lodging house in the city, close to the station, before resuming their journey back up to London.

* * *

Hardly having slept a wink the night before, when they had been desperate for news of both Max and Claire, Friedrich and Edith were just drifting off to sleep when they were awoken simultaneously by the shrill ringing of an alarm clock. In an instant, Edith was out of bed, into her dressing gown, and hurrying across the landing into Kurt's bedroom, to find her young son sitting up in bed, trying to look contrite.

"I'm sorry, Mama, it went off". He nodded towards where a large brass alarm clock stood on the nightstand.

"Yes, both your father and I know it went off. Rather more to the point, I find myself wondering why".

Kurt shrugged his shoulders and tried not to look guilty.

"I don't know, Mama".

After all the alarums of the last twenty four hours, Edith hadn't the heart to scold the little boy. Instead, she simply smiled.

"Am I then to suppose it was all the fault of The Crocodile?" She nodded in the direction of the papier mâché crocodile head sitting on top of the chest of drawers.

Kurt grinned.

"Yes, Mama!"

"Well, tell Him from me, that if it happens again, I'll have Him skinned and made into a handbag!"

Kurt laughed.

"Goodnight, Mama".

"Goodnight, my darling".

* * *

 **Fore Street, Exeter, Devon, 8th May 1942.**

Now on their way to Exeter Central, intending to resume their interrupted train journey back up to London, in a mixture of both their own and borrowed clothes, here on Fore Street, amid piles of blackened rubble, shattered brickwork and charred timbers of what, at least until the early hours of Monday morning had been rows of shops and houses, the smell of burning still hung heavy in the air. Amid the cheering, flag waving crowds, Max and Claire, she with her left forearm in plaster and wearing a sling, now paused; stood watching as, followed by a line of other motors, the Rolls Royce drew slowly to a stop and the man who had been seated beside the driver got out and opened the rear door.

"Who on earth ... Goodness! Max! Look! Look! It's the King and Queen!" exclaimed Claire. A moment later, midst all the cheering and thunderous applause, it dawned on her that the royal couple were walking directly towards the two of them.

Claire had no knowledge whatsoever of the demands of royal protocol, but realised that something was required of her, and, with the king and queen now standing before her, sank down, sketching a rudimentary curtsy. While she loved Max to distraction, her opinion of him soared as, despite being dressed as he was, seemingly oblivious both to the state of his own clothes and his immediate surroundings, Max now came smartly to attention. Claire watched open-mouthed as he bowed gravely from the waist, first to the king, and then to the queen, as if Max had been standing in line with his parents in the magnificent entrance hall at Rosenberg, welcoming their guests, during that last summer, back in 1937, before the Schönborns fled Austria. Rather than here on a rubble strewn street in Exeter. Max's father had always had a very great time for the monarchy, and had instilled the same respect in his two sons, especially for the last emperor of Austria-Hungary, Karl, now dead these twenty years, and, buried, by a strange twist of fate, on the far distant island of Madeira, in the very church where the previous year, Danny and Carmen had been married.

Having been asked for an explanation as to what had happened to them, how they had both fared, Claire heard Max explaining briefly to the king, something of what had occurred here in Exeter on the night when the city had been bombed.

"Y...y...you were v...v...very for ... for ... fortunate," stammered King George.

"How awful for the both of you. I do so hope that your arm doesn't pain you too much". Queen Elizabeth smiled warmly at Claire.

A moment later, and the Royal couple were moving on, stopping several more times, again equally briefly, for yet more words of kindness and expressions of sympathy for those living here in Exeter, who had lost family or friends, who had been rendered homeless by the bombing, or who had seen their businesses and shops destroyed. And while the visit of the king and queen could not restore what had been lost, here in Exeter, it was nonetheless very much appreciated by one and all for what it was: a show of solidarity for their beleaguered people.

* * *

 **Little Helmsby, North Riding, Yorkshire, evening, 18th May 1942.**

"Oh, do say, yes, Mama, I'm sure it'll be the most enormous fun! Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil think it's a wonderful idea".

"Yes, well they would. After all, they're safely out of harm's way, across the sea, over there in Ireland. **They** won't have to be involved!"

"And so does Saiorse!"  
"Really? Well, while I am prepared to make certain allowances for her given her condition, in case your wife has forgotten, for the foreseeable future, **I** am countess of Grantham and it will be your father and I who will have to host it! Not you and Saiorse".

"Condition? Oh, Mama, please! You make the fact that Saiorse's expecting your third grandchild sound like she's contracted some kind of awful disease".

"Not at all I merely remind you that she needs to appreciate the social niceties of the situation!"

With memories of what had happened at Robert and Saiorse's wedding reception forever seared into her inner consciousness, in particular the never-to-be-forgotten sight of Danny and Max leading that impromptu conga throughout the ground floor rooms of the house, _fun_ was not at all the word Mary would have used to describe what it was that her son had just proposed. That in just under two months from now, Downton Abbey would be the venue for an Independence Day celebration; arranged to welcome members of the American armed services to these shores, now that, at long last, the United States had joined in the fight against both Nazi Germany and the Empire of Japan.

"You did say **Americans**?"

In the warmth of the evening sunshine, standing in the public telephone box opposite the Armitage Arms, on the village green at Little Helmsby, made picturesque by its duck pond, huddle of cottages, and ancient parish church, from the tone of Mama's voice, on the other end of the line, Robert could well picture the expression of disgust registered on his mother's face.

"Of course, Mama. After all, we can hardly go ahead and hold an Independence Day celebration without there being any Americans present, now can we?"  
We could try, thought Mary. On the other hand, come to think of it, that would be an excellent reason for not holding the ghastly event in the first place.

"Anyway, aren't you forgetting something Mama?"  
"Forgetting something?"

"That Granny Cora was American. So that makes you half American".

In the ensuing silence, Robert realised that he had trespassed on hallowed ground; he heard his mother's rapid intake of breath.

"A regrettable accident of birth and one for which I myself am entirely blameless".

Robert laughed.

"Uncle Tom said you might say something like that, Mama! He asked me to tell you that you're a bit of a mongrel!"  
"Did he now? A bit of a mongrel? Well when next you speak to Paddy O'Reilly over there in Dublin, be sure and tell your uncle that when I see him, he and I shall be having words!"

"Will you at least say that you'll think about it, Mama?" With the pips sounding again, Robert hastily pushed another handful of pennies into the slot.

"Very well, Robert, since you ask me to do so. Yes, I'll agree to that. I'll **think** about it. To refuse would be churlish. But I'm not making you any promises, mind. Both your father and I have other, rather more pressing matters to attend to at the moment. But then I expect you won't know anything ..."

"About the house and the estate?"

For a moment, Mary said nothing. She hadn't known that Matthew had broached the matter with Robert but obviously he had. Well, no harm done, along with the rest of the family, Robert would have to have been told what was being discussed at some point. And, presumably, sooner rather than later. In the telephone box, seeing Flight Lieutenant Taylor had come out of the pub to look for him - it was Robert's round - as the silence continued to lengthen, Robert decided to take matters into his own hands.

"Mama? Are you still there?"

"Indeed I am, darling. From what you have just said, am I to understand that your father has taken you into his confidence as to precisely what it is that he is proposing for Downton?"

"Yes, Mama, he has. For what it's worth, Saiorse and I think it's an absolutely ripping idea".

"Do you indeed?"

"Yes, we do".

"Well, as far as I'm concerned, I don't see why we have to do anything about it ..."

Catching sight of Taylor once again, Robert saw that he was making urgent signs to him that he should re-join the others inside the pub.

"Sorry, Mama. Got to dash! Remember me to father. Love to Saiorse and the twins! See you all at the week-end. Toodle pip!"

 _Ripping. Got to dash. See you all at the week-end._ _Toodle pip._ Shaking her head in disbelief, not only at what it was that Robert had asked of her, but the phrases with which he had nonchalantly sprinkled the end of their conversation, the way these days young people were always in such a hurry, still shaking her head, Mary firmly replaced the receiver.

* * *

 **Fitzwilliam Square, Dublin, Ireland, 4th June 1942.**

Through his position as Deputy Editor of the Irish Independent, Tom Branson's contacts were many and varied; whether they were commercial, political, social, or in this case, medical. While Tom had inordinate pride in Sybil and supported her wholeheartedly in all she had achieved in her own career, first as a nurse, and now as a Matron at the Rotunda, that did not mean that he had overcome his aversion to doctors and things medical. Far from it. In that regard he was at one with his late father-in-law, Robert Crawley, fifth earl of Grantham.

But, with this in mind, it was a medical matter which, unbeknown to Sybil, had brought him here today, to what, in its heyday, had been one of the most elegant squares in the south of Dublin. Surrounded on all four sides by what, when built, had been the town houses of the aristocracy, these days Fitzwilliam Square was no longer what it once was. For, with the abolition of the position of Lord Lieutenant of Ireland back in 1922, and with the establishment of the then Irish Free State, along with the ending of the Irish Social Season which ran from January until St. Patrick's Day each year, and during which members of the aristocracy came up from their country estates to entertain each other here in Dublin, much of the raison d'être for the square's very existence had ceased to exist. While some of the houses were still private residences, many had long since been divided up into flats and, even worse, into tenements, while others were let out to doctors and lawyers as consulting rooms and offices.

 _Gotterdammerung_ , mused Tom ruefully. Friedrich had taught him the word: something, as far as he now recalled, to do with Wagner, and which, in translation, meant _Twilight of the Gods_. Somehow, it seemed singularly appropriate to his present surroundings. In fact, very much to everything. Summoning up a forced smile, Tom walked slowly up the short flight of steps and pressed the bell.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, West Riding, Yorkshire, 8th June 1942**.

As she walked purposefully away from the table in the hall, suddenly, the telephone began to ring. Honestly, thought Mary, turning on her heel, retracing her steps, and lifting up the receiver once again, I might just as well be old Miss Bell down at the exchange in the village. Still, things could be worse. On reflection, no, she thought, they couldn't. It didn't do to dwell on the past; was best if she tried not to think about Simon. The reports now coming out from the Far East, of unspeakable cruelties inflicted by the Japanese, were too terrible for words. All that apart, today was **THE DAY**.

"This is Downton Abbey. Lady Grantham speaking ..."

* * *

Mystified, Mary now replaced the receiver on its cradle. Hearing footsteps, looking up, she saw her husband descending the main staircase.

"Who was it?" asked Matthew as he reached the foot of the stairs and walked slowly towards her across the hall.

"A Captain Perreault … of the Free French forces stationed here in England. He was asking to speak with Robert".

Matthew nodded abstractedly.

"With Robert? Did he say what about?"

"Well that's the oddest part of it. About his sister. Marie … From what else he told me, Captain Perreault arrived here in England after the fall of France, from Algeria. He's on de Gaulle's staff".

"De Gaulle? Good chap! From Algeria, you say?"

Mary nodded.

"That's what he told me".

"Hm … Marie?" Momentarily, Matthew looked up from the document he was perusing. "Wasn't that the name of the woman in the Resistance, Robert met, while he was on the run over there in France?"

"Yes, I believe so. Although, it's a common enough French name. Good Lord! I hope it's not more bad news".

Matthew nodded, again distractedly so, displaying no evident concern.

"Indeed. No, I'm sure not". He looked up. "So, are you ready?"  
"As I ever shall be. Matthew, darling, are you absolutely certain there is no other way?"  
"Darling, if there was, don't you think I would have pursued it? As it is, I've considered each and every other option. You know I have. In the end this will ensure Downton's survival".

"I only hope that you're right. God knows what Papa would have said. After five hundred years …"

Matthew smiled.

"Cheer up, darling. It's not the end of the world. And if it helps, from what I hear tell, the Littletons, over at Orrow House in the North Riding, and the Fortescues down in Wiltshire, at Nunton Hall, are considering just such a proposal themselves".

At the sound of a motor now drawing to a stop on the gravel outside the main doors of the abbey, he glanced towards the open door.

"Ah, here they are …" Matthew nodded to Henry who opened the front door as if nothing here at Downton Abbey had changed, nor indeed ever would.

Only, of course, it had.

For after today, nothing would ever be quite the same again.

* * *

Mary had been prepared to dislike their visitors on sight. And in that she was not to be disappointed.

"Mary, may I introduce Mr. Lisle and Mr. Tait, from the National Trust. Gentlemen, my wife, Lady Grantham".

Put their names the other way around, thought Mary, and they would have sounded like a pair of dealers in sugar. She forced a smile.

"Gentlemen, welcome to Downton Abbey. How do you do? I hope you both had a pleasant journey". Mary bowed her head slightly and extended her hand to each of them in turn. However, her words of greeting and facial expression were at variance with her innermost thoughts.

Mr. Lisle: charcoal grey suit, worn with Spectator shoes? Where on earth did he think he was? Lords? That apart, it had been Granny's opinion that anyone wearing such footwear was either a cad or a bounder!

Ghastly little man.

And as for the other one, Mr. Tait, plus fours, check stockings, and wearing a pocket square matching his tie. Well, really!

* * *

 **Fitzwilliam Square, Dublin, Ireland, 4th June 1942.**

Tom had been told that Dr. Trevelyan was forthright, that he did not beat about the bush. And so it proved to be. Now, with the examination at last over, Tom finished dressing, slipped on his jacket, and sat down.

"And?"

"There's no easy way for me to say this, Mr. Branson, but you're in a bad way. I can prescribe you some pills which will help, at least in the short term, but your wife really should be ..."  
"I can't tell her".

The doctor took off his glasses and looked directly at Tom. Said simply:

"You must".

* * *

 **Sumatra,** **Dutch East Indies,** **early afternoon, 12th February 1942.**

The unexpected question stopped Simon dead in his tracks.

"May I come with you, sir?"

Simon spun round, to be confronted by the sight of a grubby young boy, whom he judged to be about eleven years old, still dressed in what yet remained of his school uniform.

"If you want to. What's your name?"  
"Collins, sir".  
Simon smiled. How quintessentially British.

"I meant what's your Christian name?"

"David, sir".  
"David?" The boy nodded. "Well, there's no need to call me sir. My name's Simon. But as to coming with me, David, I'm only going to look for water". Simon indicated the jerry can, then nodded towards the fringe of palm trees. "Wouldn't you rather stay here with the others?"  
David shook his head decisively.

"No. Not when ..."

Simon nodded.

Glancing towards the distant lifeboat, beside which the survivors had lit a bonfire, he saw that two of the soldiers were digging graves in the sand for three more of those on board who had died, an arduous business given the heat and that what they were having to use as spades were pieces of driftwood washed up on the shore, and from which equally rudimentary crosses were being fashioned.

"Well, all right then. But keep close to me. There might be snakes".

* * *

Having at last found a stream, it was an hour or so later, with the jerry can now refilled with water that, as they reached the edge of the jungle, from the direction of the beach they heard screams and then shooting.

Hidden from sight behind the crest of the sand dune, Simon did his very best to shield David from hearing or seeing what was now happening down there on the beach, hugging the boy to him, and covering his face, so that Simon alone was witness to what took place. Whether or not the Japanese had already been here on the island when the survivors from the _Eurydice_ had reached the shore, was anyone's guess. Perhaps they had been brought here by the bonfire on the beach, lit so as to guide any other survivors thither. Either way, it made no difference. They were here now.

Under orders from an officer, with his sword raised, the Japanese soldiers herded the survivors from the lifeboat, men, whether civilian or military, women, and children, even the nurses wearing their Red Cross armbands and holding protected status as non-combatants, into the crashing surf at bayonet point, then retreated to the safety of the beach. A moment later, the shooting began, the survivors raked repeatedly with bursts of machine gun fire.

The shooting seemed to go on forever.

And then at last, thankfully, it ended.

Lifting his head, Simon now saw the soldiers stabbing at the bodies floating in the surf with their bayonets.

A short while later, without so much as a backward glance, the Japanese left in their patrol boat and in its wake, a deep and brooding silence descended on the scene of the massacre.

 **Author's Note:**

The firm established in 1857 by Giuseppe Borsalino, and now based in Alessandria in Italy, known especially for its fedoras, still makes hats.

In 1942, having already transferred from two other London theatres, Noel Coward's _Blithe Spirit_ would run for a record 1,997 performances at the Duchess Theatre, Aldwych.

To bring the raging fires in Exeter under control took more than twenty four hours, with reinforcements from the fire services of Torquay and Plymouth arriving to help those in the city, overwhelmed by what had occurred. Well over two hundred people were killed - the exact figure remains unclear - and nearly six hundred were injured, while the area devastated by the bombing covered some 30 acres. The Globe Hotel was one of the many buildings destroyed.

In the aftermath of the bombing of the city, King George VI and Queen Elizabeth did indeed visit Exeter, in order to see for themselves what had happened and to show solidarity with its beleaguered inhabitants.

In the 1940s, telephone calls made from public telephone boxes were remarkably cheap but one had to have the right money!

After two unsuccessful attempts to regain the throne of Hungary, exiled, along with his wife and young family, by the victorious Allies to Madeira in 1921, Emperor Karl, the last emperor of Austria Hungary (1887-1922, reigned 1916-1918) lies buried in the Church of Our Lady, Monte.

General Charles de Gaulle (1890-1970). At the time of the story, he was leader of the Free French forces in opposition to the Vichy Government.

Tate and Lyle, formed in 1921 from the merger of two rival sugar refiners, Henry Tate & Sons and Abram Lyle & Sons.

Spectator shoes - usually made of leather and of two different colours - very popular in the 1920s and 30s. The style was considered too flamboyant for a gentleman to wear. Even so, Wallis Simpson was well-known for wearing this style.

The massacre of the survivors from the sinking of the _Eurydice_ is in part based on what actually happened to a group of civilians, British military personnel, and Australian nurses, brutally murdered by Japanese soldiers in what has come to be known as the Bangka Massacre, and which occurred on 16th February 1942. One of the nurses survived, and later gave evidence of this appalling incident to a war crimes trial held in Tokyo in 1947.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Births, Marriages, and Deaths

 **Southern Sumatra, Dutch East Indies, 12th February 1942.**

Light.

* * *

Beneath his knees, down here, on the palm fringed beach, the sand felt soft and warm.

Above him, the leathery green fronds rustled in the faintest of breezes.

The sun was well up now; had risen clear of the belt of palms.

Their tops seemed so far away.

Bright sunlight sparkled on the water.

Iridescent waves broke on the coruscant shore.

Overhead, there screeched a flock of brightly coloured parrots.

Rivulets of sweat coursed their way down his face, scalding his blistered, sunburnt skin.

He tasted salt.

Then blood from his cut lip.

The pain in his belly grew.

His breathing was becoming increasingly laboured.

He sensed, rather than saw that there was stealthy movement in the deep shadows beneath the trees.

A moment later, somewhere behind him, soft footfalls sounded in the sand.

Almost lazily, the Japanese officer swung his sword.

And blood incarnadine stained the whiteness of the sand.

* * *

Darkness.

* * *

 **Drawing Room, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, 8th June 1942.**

While outwardly she appeared calm, inwardly Mary was seething.

This was not to be borne. She knew that if there had been something convenient to hand, like as not, she would have picked it up and thrown it at Matthew. So, had it not been for the singular lack of a suitable object, and also the blasted cricket ball which, opportunely, as now she saw it, at that very moment smashed through one of the Drawing Room windows, she would have embarrassed the both of them.

* * *

"But that would mean we would only have the ..." began Mary.

The unexpected sound of breaking glass put an immediate end to what it was she had been about to say, as this time, and on the Drawing Room carpet, it was a cricket ball that landed with a thud at her feet.

A moment or two later, there came a discrete knock at the door and Henry came into the room.

"Yes, what is it?" asked Matthew somewhat peremptorily.

"Beg pardon, Your Lordship, but Mr. Harris is at the front door. He wonders ... if the boys from St. Dominic's might have their ball back?"

It was at this point that Mary rose quickly to her feet, so quickly in fact that as he too now stood up, Mr. Lisle nearly upset his tea in his lap. Mary forbore to smile. Instead she rounded on the hapless Mr. Tait who had, so far, steadily been munching his way through nearly an entire plate of biscuits.

"These really are quite delicious, Lady Grantham. May I ask you, where do they come from?"  
"I have absolutely no idea. I leave that sort of thing to our cook," said Mary coldly. "As for **this** ," Mary reached down and picked up the stray cricket ball, "I'll see that Mr. Harris is given it on my way over to the stables".

"Very well, Your Ladyship". Henry nodded. Then, having advised that he would immediately put in hand the necessary arrangements in order to have the window repaired, he promptly withdrew.

"You're going riding? Now?" asked Matthew, unable to mask his incredulity. He knew that Mary was annoyed over what the gentlemen from the National Trust were proposing but there simply was no other way.

"Indeed. While I am sure that you and these two _gentlemen_ still have a very great deal to discuss, I am in need of some fresh air. A ride up to Old Humphrey should help me clear my head. Don't worry. I shall be back in time to change for dinner. Gentlemen, good afternoon". Mary nodded in turn to each of the men from the National Trust and then, like a galleon under full sail, swept imperiously out into the hall and as far as the main door of the house.

On the doorstep she paused.

Of Mr. Harris, who she presumed had still not heard of Dr. Livingstone, there was no immediate sign. Instead, standing before her was the same fair haired young boy, the one who reminded her so painfully of Simon and who, earlier in the year, had come to her in search of the stray football. Before he had been wearing football kit. Now he was in cricket whites.

"Well, young man, it seems we meet once again! Yours, I believe?" exclaimed Mary, expertly tossing the ball to the young boy.

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am". The young boy gulped in amazement. Not that Mary saw him do so, as by now she had turned her back and was already on her way, hurrying upstairs to change into her riding clothes. The boy sighed. None of his pals could put a spin on a ball like that.

A moment later, he likewise turned, and set off back across the gravel of the forecourt, over towards the improvised cricket pitch on what had been the Front Lawn, and on which Messrs. Lisle and Tait had just suggested that afternoon teas might be served to day visitors to the abbey. Needless to say, Mary had been horrified.

* * *

 **Stable Yard, Downton Abbey, a short while later.**

With one final pull, Mary finished tightening the girth on Quicksilver who was as mettlesome as her name. There, that would have to do. It was somewhat frayed but there was nothing that could be done. Leather too was in short supply and obtaining a replacement girth for this particular saddle was, she supposed, likely to prove impossible. However, if she took things easy - didn't jump any gates or fences - then there wouldn't be a problem. A gentle canter across the fields then, followed by an amble down a succession of green lanes - no-one else ever went that way - that led up to Old Humphrey, the folly just off Hawkstone Ridge where she often went to sit and think, leaving Quicksilver to graze contentedly in the sunshine, and from where there was a wonderful view over Downton. With all of this in mind, Mary climbed into the saddle, and clattered swiftly out of the stable yard.

* * *

 **Below Hawkstone Ridge, Downton Abbey Estate, later that same afternoon.**

One wing of the house!

 **One**!

To still be the preserve of the family.

Along with afternoon teas being served on the Front Lawn, the rest of the principal rooms and the immediate grounds, including the Rose Garden, to be opened up to members of the paying public to gawp at, as though the way they all lived their lives here at Downton was some kind of novelty. Why, it would be just like living in a bloody zoo! This now gave Mary pause for thought ... and an idea.

She found herself wondering idly if there was the slightest chance that London Zoo might be persuaded to loan her a couple of lions or tigers. Either species would do. Both were carnivores. Perhaps, one of each. Let loose in the grounds on the unsuspecting hoi polloi, they would soon take care of any visitors who strayed into areas marked "Private". A live feline embodiment of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fictitious "Hound of the Baskervilles".

And when, in due course, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, here at Downton on a "day trip" from wherever it was such ghastly little people lived, Liverpool, Leeds, or perhaps ... even ... Manchester, reported, tearfully to the village police constable, the inexplicable disappearance of dear little Algy, who when last seen had been eating an ice cream cornet, by then the lion, or the tiger, would have seen to it that no trace remained of the aforesaid child. Like his ice cream cornet, Algy would have been entirely **consumed**.

The only problem now was where to keep the aforesaid lions, or tigers; to paraphrase Hamlet, that indeed was the question! It was at this precise moment that, happening to glance up, Mary saw the folly; an isolated stone tower, ruinous but that was the way it had been built. And as a makeshift den for wild animals, Old Humphrey would do very well indeed!

As the mare continued to amble along the twisting track, Mary's mind wandered to consider other matters. With still no news as to what had happened to darling Simon, who must surely be dead, apart from the blasted Independence Day celebration looming ever larger, there was this business of Robert and Saiorse. Mary had known in her heart that something was not quite right between the two of them but never in her wildest dreams had she suspected anything like this. Probably because, after Matthew and she had married, she had never looked at another man in that way. Or he, another woman. That silly business about the comtesse de Roquebrune had been all a stupid misunderstanding on her part.

In this respect, Sybil and Edith had been equally fortunate. Both adored their husbands. As they had all grown older, and also closer - their trip to Florence in the summer of 1932 had been the start of that - down the years, and when the were in the mood to do so, the three Crawley girls, as they knew they were referred to by both Tom and Matthew, and now by Friedrich too, had exchanged confidences as to the merits and demerits of their respective husbands, their foibles and eccentricities. Not, of course, that darling Sybil would admit that Tom had any faults at all! Apart that was from, on occasion, talking in his sleep.

Dearest Tom!

Mary hoped fervently that what Sybil had set down in her last letter, and which had been vouchsafed to her in the strictest confidence, was nothing more than an expression of wifely concern. From something else Sybil had written a while ago, Mary was equally very well aware that, when it came to matters of a medical nature, despite being married to a nurse, Tom was just like darling Papa: disinclined to talk. And, since darling Matthew hadn't said a word to her on the subject, given that he and Tom were as thick as thieves, in all likelihood, Matthew himself didn't know anything about it either.

Mary sighed.

She greatly admired and deeply loved her Irish brother-in-law. Much like Matthew, Tom was charming, handsome, intelligent, and, like Matthew, possessed of a devilish sense of humour which Mary often found unintelligible. That reminded her. She had not forgotten Tom's comment about her being half American and for which a reckoning was due; although, in all seriousness, what with the war and Sybil's unexpected pregnancy, quite when the Bransons would once more be here at Downton, was anyone's guess.

Mongrel indeed!

Mary smiled.

Lost in thought, she failed to see the man who suddenly appeared right in front of her from out of the bracken at the side of the track. But Quicksilver did. Startled, the mare reared; the worn girth snapped ...

* * *

 **Southern Sumatra, Dutch East Indies, late evening 12th February 1942.**

Despite the increasing desperateness of their situation, Simon found himself smiling. Father had read Kipling to both Robert and he when they had been boys; probably something to do with Papa being ex military.

 _On the road to Mandalay,_  
 _Where the flyin'-fishes play ..._

Well, not quite.

For this was Sumatra and not Burma and they were on the road to Palembang, not Mandalay. And, the only things they had seen flying were what they would have much preferred not to have seen at all. Were what the Allies reported as _Oscars_ : Nakajima fighters of the Imperial Japanese Air Force.

 _Elephints a-pilin' teak_  
 _In the sludgy, squdgy creek,_  
 _Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!_

That was true enough; as from beside the road, where, on the edge of a mangrove swamp, against their better judgement, they had stopped to help a native driver change a tyre on a small bus, and which, inside they found to be crowded with frightened, tearful Dutch women and children, they had glimpsed a pair of elephants hauling a load of timber from out of the forest.

 _An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells ..._

Which, as they could all attest, was also as true of this part of the world, as it was, presumably, of Burma.

For here in the rainforests of Southern Sumatra, it was both humid and hot; much hotter in fact than it had been in Singapore. Uncomfortably so. Although Simon found himself wondering if the marked difference in the heat he was experiencing had, in part, something to do with the lingering effects of his malaria, which had laid him up in hospital in Singapore and which on more than one occasion during this never-to-be-forgotten journey had seen him both suffering from hallucinations and, at times, shivering uncontrollably.

And throughout what remained of the long hot day, as they sped south, the sun had continued to beat down mercilessly out of a cloudless sky both on the lorry and its occupants, the road, as they passed along it, littered with all manner of abandoned vehicles, both civilian and military. Here and there they came upon another gaggle of pitiful native refugees, while in a village where, as it began to grow dark, they had stopped, albeit only briefly, in order to ask directions, they had heard the sound of bells coming from the red brick temple a short distance away.

With it also being the rainy season, the air was both damp and moist, hung still and heavy. On either side of the ribbon of road, as dusk fell, the dense green foliage of the tree canopy of towering palms was alive with the sounds of all manner of both animals and birds, which for the most part went unseen, save for the occasional flash of the brilliant plumage of a parrot or a parakeet, along with the shadowy form of a monkey glimpsed swinging through the branches; while over all could be heard an incessant cacophony of calling insects.

The lorry lurched and splashed quickly through a succession of deep puddles sending up on either side enormous torrents of filthy water.

Of his own family, Simon thought that only his father, Matthew, with his love of speed, might have appreciated the madcap rate of their descent down the narrow, twisting road, while for his part, no doubt Uncle Tom would have had something to say about the state of the vehicle in which they were all now travelling. Suddenly, and without warning, the battered army lorry, the springs of which had long since seen better days, lurched savagely to the left, and then just as quickly swung immediately to the right, presumably in order so as to avoid yet another succession of potholes. Even so, with Joe Henson at the wheel, there was no appreciable slackening in the break-neck speed of the vehicle as they continued to bang and rattle their way down along the dirt road, ever southwards in the direction of Palembang.

* * *

The two Australians and their battered army lorry happened along in the nick of time, not long after when, from out of sight behind the sand dune, having watched in silence as the Japanese patrol boat sailed away from the scene of the massacre, Simon indicated to David that they should slither down the bank and set off into the jungle on foot. Quite where they were bound or what they would do, Simon knew not. But, anything to get away from **THAT**.

Luck was with them, insofar as, now having decided to head in the opposite direction, away from the stream, after about half an hour's walking, they hit upon a road. But which way should they go? Left or right. It was then, as they stood wondering, that the truck had come hurtling round a corner. In that split second, both dived for cover but, thought Simon, it was impossible that they hadn't been seen. As if to reinforce this, the lorry slewed to a stop, right beside where, scarcely daring to breathe, Simon and David crouched in the undergrowth.

A man, unshaven, sporting a bush hat, and wearing nothing but a pair of dirty khaki shorts and boots, now clambered out of the truck, stood motionless, and looked cautiously about him, rifle at the ready. Seeing he was not Japanese, but nonetheless still with his hands raised, followed by David, Simon now rose slowly to his feet.

"God stone the fuckin' crows! Where the 'ell d'you spring from, cobber?"

Realising that the soldier was Australian, having lowered their hands, Simon briefly recounted what had happened to them, and also what had occurred down there on the beach. It transpired that Corporal Joe Henson, and his pal Lance Jack Doug Tanner, who had now also clambered down out of the cab, had made it out of Singa, on a small naval gunboat, along with twenty or so others of their fellow countrymen. But, once ashore here in Sumatra, none of them could agree as to what they should do next. Should they try and make for Padang on the west coast or head south. Most seemed to be for Padang, but before any decision could be made, they had found themselves under attack from the air by the Japanese. In the ensuing confusion, it was a case of every man for himself. From where, and quite how, they had acquired the old lorry neither man said, but here they were now, trying to make for Palembang, well over a hundred miles to the south.

* * *

"Shouldn't we at least bury them?" asked Simon, as the two Australians now began walking back to the truck.

"Look, cobber, there's nothing we can do. For all our sakes, especially the nipper, the best thing we can do is imshi".

"Imshi?"  
"Scram. Get the hell out!" explained Tanner.

"But ..."

"If we bury them, and the fuckin' Nips come back, they'll know someone got out and come looking. That's the dinkum oil. Besides, there ain't any time. Look!" This from Henson. Simon glanced up to where the lance corporal was now pointing and, through the foliage of the tree canopy, in the sky above, saw a swarm of Japanese fighter planes. His head pounding, Simon felt himself begin to pitch forward, but before he fell, Henson grabbed him by the arm.

"God mate you're crooked, ain't yer? 'ere, Joe, 'elp me get 'im in the back of the truck. Best thing for 'im is to have a gonk".

A few moments later, with David sitting beside him, lying on a makeshift bed of sacking in the back of the truck, drifting in and out of consciousness, Simon felt the lorry move off, gathering speed, down the twisting, turning road, bound for Palembang.

* * *

With Singa about to fall, if indeed it had not already done so, it was clear that Sumatra would be next.

According to Joe, the Japs had already bombed the airfield at Pangkalanbenteng and there were rumours that enemy paratroopers had landed there and taken over the place, as well as that they were heading up river towards Palembang. So with all of this in mind, knowing they were now in a desperate race against time, given the speed at which he was driving, Joe was certainly doing his very best to ensure that they reached Palembang and the railhead there before they too fell to the Japanese. If they made it, and there was a train, then they could all head south, down to Oosthaven, and from there, with luck, take ship across the sea, over the Sunda Strait, to Java.

The lorry lurched once again.

"'ere! Catch, nipper!"

Doug thrust his arm through the broken rear window of the cab and tossed a packet of biscuits in the general direction of where David was sitting.

Doing his very best to keep his seat, sitting in the back of the swaying truck, in the gathering gloom, Simon grinned at David who, still wearing his school shorts, incongruously now topped by a British army shirt, and with a pair of army boots on his feet, was sitting eating peaches with a fork from out of a tin, the juice running down his chin, while Simon did the same with a tin of sardines, washed down with a bottle of lukewarm Tiger beer. Along with a variety of other items, which included rifles, ammunition, various tins of food, a crate of beer, and a couple of army kitbags full of clothing, the peaches and the sardines had been "liberated", as Doug called it at the time, from another army lorry which they had happened upon some miles to the north of where they were now. When they had come upon it, lying abandoned and half slewed off the road, the bullet ridden state of the vehicle with its crazed windscreen and two bodies slumped in the cab, already decaying in the sweltering heat, told its own sad story.

David grinned. Given what he had been through, it was good to see David smile, especially after what both of them had witnessed back there down on the beach.

In the very short time he had known him, Simon had warmed to the young boy. There was something about David. This and the fact that, in his looks, he reminded Simon of someone; quite who, he couldn't say, although perhaps it had more to do with the fact that David's elderly father, a shadowy figure in his young life, who passed away when David was scarcely two years old, had come from somewhere near Ripon. Thereafter, David's mother had brought him out to live with her brother and sister-in-law on their rubber plantation in Malacca. David's mother had died when he was five, so he had been brought up by his uncle and aunt. Then, just last year, David had been sent to school in Singapore. When the Japanese had invaded, along with other boys from his school, David had been evacuated on board the _Eurydice_ , and it seemed reasonable to assume that of them, he was the only survivor. As to what had become of his aunt and uncle, both of whom had refused to leave their bungalow and their plantation, there had been no word.

* * *

 **Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, Ireland, late afternoon, 4th June 1942.**

After the surreptitious visit which he had paid to Dr. Trevelyan's consulting rooms in Fitzwilliam Square, when Tom reached the house in Idrone Terrace, thankfully, he found it empty. This, along with the train journey back from Westland Row station, gave him time to think, to decide how he was going to break the news to Sybil.

The train had been late leaving the terminus.

These days, more often than not, that was the way of it. Here in Ireland, there being shortages of both of coal and oil, the railway service was but a shadow of what it had been before the Emergency. In Dublin, the number of passenger trains had been severely reduced long since and out in the country it was even worse, with some lines seeing but one train each way a day. At times, there were none at all, and those that did run often did so late since the only coal to be had was very poor quality, and so as to eke out the meagre supply, was mixed with both turves and wood. With little petrol, the omnibus services were just as bad and hopelessly overcrowded. So when the 'bus you had been waiting for finally turned up, when on reaching the door you then found it full, all that could be done was to wait for the next one, whenever that might happen along, or else return home and hope for better luck on the morrow.

* * *

A short while later, Tom heard the key turn in the latch, then the sound of both footsteps and a pair of excited voices echoing in the tiled hallway; suddenly remembered that Dermot was bringing home a school pal, Declan O'Shaughnessy, for supper. A moment later, followed by Sybil, the two boys appeared in the kitchen doorway.

"Tom, darling! You're home very early. Is everything all right?" Sybil bestowed a perfunctory kiss on Tom's cheek. She saw Dermot glance at Declan and then raise his eye brows.

"Oh, Ma, must you?"

"Don't you _oh Ma me_ , young man! Can't I kiss your Da? Yes, in the larder. Thank you, Declan". For good measure, and with a quick backward glance at Dermot to see that he was watching, Sybil now gave Tom another quick kiss, then sank down wearily on the nearest chair, kicking off her shoes under the table, leaving the two boys with the task of continuing to unpack the messages.

"Yes, perfectly. I ... Hallo, Declan. Well, are you?"

"Grand, for sure, Mr. Branson", called Declan from somewhere inside the larder.

"Darlin' would you be likin' some tea?"  
"That would be lovely".

Tom smiled. He rose from his chair and went over to the Belfast where he proceeded to fill the kettle.

"Honestly!" exclaimed Sybil. "What with all the queues and the shortages - one ounce of tea per person per week, did you know - it's taken me nearly an hour to do what once I did in half the time. And what have I to show for it all? Precious little, that's what!"

"For sure! Don't you remember that piece I wrote about the rationing ..."  
Sybil seemed not to have heard him.

"Eight ounces of sugar and six of butter! Jaysus! We might just as well have joined the war and been fighting the Germans. Why you little blighter!" She pressed her hand hard against her stomach.

Tom grinned at Sybil over his shoulder before placing the kettle on the stove, striking a match, and turning on the gas which lit but with a decidedly feeble _pop_. Even gas was now rationed, and Tom found himself wondering whether it might be an idea if, before the winter set in, the old range was brought back into use.

"Baby being difficult?"

Sybil nodded.

"The more so when ever you're around. He - or she - must recognise your voice!"

"Ma?"  
"Hm?"

"Declan and I are leppin' with hunger, Ma. What's for supper?" asked Dermot.

"Well," said Sybil. "How about Da makes one of his hashes? Tom?"

"For sure, if that's what they'd like. Assuming, of course, the gas isn't cut off!"

Dermot grinned.

"Yes, please Da!"

While Ma's cooking skills were much improved upon what they had once been, Da's corned beef hashes were second to none, and had been much enjoyed by all the Branson children.

"For sure, Mr. Branson," said Declan.

And, so, for the time being, at least, it seemed that Tom's own news would have to wait and which, he thought, as he reached for the cast iron skillet, given what he had to relate, was, in reality, probably for the best.

* * *

With supper over long since, and Declan having gone home - he lived only just round the corner on Main Street - with Dermot upstairs asleep in bed, Tom and Sybil were sitting quietly at the kitchen table, facing each other, the ticking of the clock on the wall marking the passage of the time.

"Tom? "  
"Hm?"

"Just how long do we have?" Sybil asked quietly, chewing her lower lip, her hands resting gently in his. Even with the clock, just quite how long both of them had been sitting there, she knew not. Nonetheless, shortly, Sybil knew that she would have to stand up. The baby was due early next month and its repeated kicks were causing her a great deal of discomfort. She had thought, when carrying him, that darling Bobby had been a prize fighter, but he had been as nothing when compared to this little one.

Below the house, a whistle sounded, and a train rattled quickly past through the station.

"Until the next train?" chuckled Tom, trying to make light of what he had just told her. Saw now, from Sybil's expression, that his attempt at levity had been seriously misplaced.

"Tom! It's not a laughing matter!"

"No, for sure," he agreed contritely.

"So, what did ..."  
"Dr. Trevelyan didn't say. Well, not exactly. But not today; not even tomorrow. He just said I had to take better care of myself". While Tom knew this to be a white lie, in the circumstances, he thought, anything to spare her. "And, he gave me these ..." From the pocket of his jacket, Tom produced the box of pills and pushed it across the surface of the table.

Picking it up, Sybil read out aloud the label.

"Nitroglycerin".  
Tom smiled.

"For sure! So, if suddenly, I explode ... And, he also said something about diet. When I said you were a nurse he said you would understand ..."

Sybil nodded.

She knew very well for what it was the tablets were prescribed. As to diet, that might well help. There were those who thought that it did but then again, it was only a matter of time.

* * *

 **Old Humphrey, Hawkstone Ridge, Downton Abbey Estate, afternoon, 8th June 1942.**

Sitting cross-legged, with his back against the wall, down the length of the barrel of his pistol, Kapitänleutnant Horst Müller sat considering the woman now lying unconscious on the pile of bracken. Icily beautiful. Well dressed too. Clearly an aristocrat; like himself. And the horse, now tethered out of sight, a real thoroughbred, of which there were several on his parents' estate near Marienburg in East Prussia.

Kapitänleutnant Müller had been on the run from the POW camp at for two days now. His intention was still to make for one of the ports on the East Coast, where he hoped to hide away on a neutral ship and so try and make it home to Germany.

His escape from Grizedale Hall up in the fells over in Lancashire had proved remarkably easy, and, likewise, the acquisition of the motorbike, presently well hidden beneath a brake of bracken behind the tower. The Tommy who owned it had been more interested in being on manoeuvres with his young lady to be in a position to do anything about Müller's theft of the machine. And by the time the hapless soldier had realised what was happening, had pulled up his underpants and trousers, and was running across the meadow to where he had parked his motorbike, Müller was long gone.

* * *

 **Library, Downton Abbey, that same afternoon.**

After the gentlemen from the National Trust had left, with Mary still out riding, not a little displeased with her abrupt departure from the scene, Matthew had retired to the Library to consider how matters now stood. The formal signing of the necessary papers in respect of the transference of the Downton Abbey estate to the Trust was to take place up in London at the end of the following month.

It was at this moment that his eyes alighted on the box.

Now, had it not reminded him of the Far East, and therefore of Simon, in all likelihood, Matthew would never have picked it up. Standing where it had always done, the box, to be more precise, a Chinese Puzzle Box, stood on top of his late father-in-law's desk. Made of teak, inlaid with ivory and mother of pearl, it was indeed a beautiful thing and, at various times in the past, all of the family, both adults and children alike, had tried to find out how the box opened but to no avail. Only dear old Robert had known its secret and he had taken that with him to his grave back in the summer of 1931.

No, thought Matthew, there simply **was** no other way to ensure the future survival of this house and the estate. Even so, he knew that Mary remained sceptical. How was he to convince her? Whether he had pressed one of its panels, Matthew never knew - he supposed he must have - for now, as he set the box down on the desk, slightly harder than he had intended, there came the faintest of clicks.

The box shot open.

* * *

 **Quinta das palmeiras, Monte, Madeira, 9th July 1942.**

Although it was still only rented from the company belonging to Colonel Blantyre, Danny, Carmen, and the boys had moved up here and into this larger house but a month or so ago. Of course, with Carmen now very near her time, this had not been ideal, especially when she had told Danny that she thought she might be wrong about her dates, with two children and a third on the way, their first home down in Funchal, with its small garden, was no longer suitable. Up here in Monte, apart from the magnificent view out over the wide sweep of the Atlantic Ocean, there was a large garden, larger in fact than that behind the house in Idrone Terrace, and where, as they grew older the boys and their brother or sister would be able to both play and run wild.

Even so, in the summer's heat, the journey up here to Monte from Funchal some 1,800 feet below, with the four of them all crammed together into the cab of a wheezing lorry and their possessions piled in behind in the back, proved something of an ordeal, as on more than one occasion, the battered old vehicle threatened to overheat, as it ground its way slowly round yet another of the steep and tortuous bends of the narrow, unpaved road.

Having run in from down in the yard, where on his arrival Danny had tossed the reins of his horse to Vincente, taking the stairs two at a time, streaked with sweat and spattered with mud from his hard ride, galloping back to the house, appearing, breathless in the doorway of the lamp lit, shuttered bedroom, Danny found his wife already sitting up in their bed, looking radiant, the new-born baby in her arms, wrapped closely in a shawl, young Daniel sitting cross legged beside his mother on the bed with little Tomás in his lap. As the elderly doctor closed his leather bag, while Carlota moved around the room clearing away the detritus of the recent birth, now seeing her husband, arms folded, standing leaning against the frame of the door, Carmen smiled happily.

"Otro chico, mi querido".

Danny grinned broadly.

"Another boy," he sighed.

"¿Estás contento?" asked Carmen.

"Por supuesto," he said and nodded.

For the moment, unable to tear himself away from contemplating the delightful tableau presented by his dark haired wife and their three young children, Danny still lounged in the doorway. But then, moving deftly aside to let the doctor pass, who, as he did so, patted him reassuringly on the shoulder, with his own eyes now having adjusted to the relative darkness here within compared to the brightness of the sunlight outside, Danny straightened up, and moved swiftly into the bedroom. A moment later, seated beside Carmen on the bed, having kissed his wife, and then having relieved Daniel of Tomás who was becoming somewhat fractious, Danny proceeded to study his new-born son now sleeping soundly in his mother's arms. After a few minutes' silent contemplation, Danny looked up to find Carmen's dark eyes were upon him.

"Te amo mucho. ¿Te importa si ..." he began shyly, as their fingers entwined.

"... we call him Roberto? No, not at all".

"Gracias". He kissed her again.

"Pero yo pienso, _Rober_ es mejor". Carmen smiled.

"Rober?" asked Danny. "Meaning ..."

"Bobby," she said simply.

* * *

 **Crawley House, Downton, Yorkshire, afternoon, 8th June 1942.**

In the drowsy heat of the summer afternoon, out here on the lawn of the walled garden, at the rear of Crawley House, midst the scent of new mown grass, the nodding spikes of golden rod, purple loosestrife, lupins, and delphiniums, while at the far end, down by the stream, beneath the apple trees in the orchard, bees droned in their hives, seated in one of a pair of old canvas deckchairs, which Mary would have considered awfully middle class, with Kurt at school, Edith sat enjoying a brief interlude of peace and quiet. Since their arrival here in England, apart from doing his very best to pursue his academic interests, Friedrich had taken up one of Matthew's late mother's lesser known hobbies, bee keeping. Now, just come up from inspecting the hives, having taken off his gloves, his hat and veil, he sank down wearily into the other deckchair.

"Es ist heute sehr heiß! So then, _Mrs. Darling_ , tell me, honestly now, after nearly two years, Max and Claire, you don't regret their marriage?"

"Honestly?"  
"Ehrlich!"

Edith shook her head and laughed.

"But before I answer that in any greater detail, would you like some tea? It's freshly made". She indicated the tea things set out on the wicker table beside her.

"Danke".

Edith poured them out both a cup and sank back in her deckchair.

"Oh, this is Heavenly. one might even think ..."  
Friedrich nodded; closed his eyes and sighed contentedly.

"Tatsächlich".

"Then to be perfectly frank with you, darling, yes, I did. At least to begin with. And, of course, I was angry with the pair of them. As were you yourself; over how it all came about. Neither of us like deceit and that isn't how Max was brought up to behave. But, then, when I saw them there, together in the hospital, up in London ... when I saw him looking up at her from the bed, I saw me, looking up at you ... not a moment longer. I knew then that they were right for each other. Besides, you've seen the two of them here, and at Downton. Max absolutely adores her and she, him. And now, from what Claire told me in her telephone call, how Max cared for her during the bombing down there in Exeter ... For what it's worth, Claire's very fond of Kurt and I know he's quite enamoured of the idea of having a big sister. By the way, he's hoping that somehow, they'll both be here for the pantomime".

Friedrich nodded.

"Certainly. As for Max and Claire, they're very well matched. God knows what my family would make of it but then they ..."

"Didn't approve of me?"  
"Exactly so".

"Who would ever have thought it? Our Max. And an English farmer's daughter!" laughed Edith.

"Indeed".

"What about you?"  
"So long as Max is happy, and obviously he is, bearing in mind what the doctors told us ... that twenty would be a good age ... then let him have his chance of happiness, even if ..."

"If it proves to be fleetingly transitory?" Edith bit her lip. What would be, would be.

"Exactly. But no regrets?"  
"No, none at all. Well, perhaps there is one ..."

"Which is?"

"Not having grandchildren. But, as to that, both of them are being very sensible. They know it would be taking a terrible risk. The last time I spoke with Claire, she said that perhaps, after she's qualified as a doctor, when the war is over, then they might consider the possibility of adopting".

"When the war is over ..." Friedrich sighed.

"Do you think we will ever go back? I mean to Austria ... to Rosenberg?"

"Who knows? I think we would do best not to take anything for granted. At least until the Allies prevail. As to this business of the estate, Matthew proposing that Downton passes into the hands of the National Trust, what do you make of it?"  
"Of the proposal?"  
Friedrich nodded.

"I think Matthew has the right idea. It will ensure Downton's survival on into the twentieth century. For those who come after, Robert, then Alexander ..."

* * *

 **Library, Downton Abbey, that same afternoon.**

Matthew sat back in his chair, ran his hands through his hair, aghast at what he had learned.

Within the box, there had been a bundle of letters, all dating from the summer and early autumn of 1929, when, of necessity, Cora had travelled to the States on board the RMS Berengaria, to try to bring some order to the Levinson family affairs, in the wake of the death of her alcoholic brother, Harold. The rest of the family, including dear old Robert, had remained behind here in England, at Downton, save for but one week when, Robert had taken himself off up to town.

And, along with the letters ...

* * *

 **Palembang, Southern Sumatra, Dutch East Indies, 13th February 1942.**

 _An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!_

Perhaps.

But when, finally, early the next morning they reached Palembang, in what, in normal circumstances would have been a blaze of sunshine, it was clear that today there would be no dawn.

For here, in the south of Sumatra, they were now witness to something which was chillingly reminiscent of what all of them, even David, had seen back there in Singapore. From the rear of the lorry, eating peaches out of a tin with his fingers, whichever way he turned his head, Simon could see that here in Palembang, even though dawn had broken, the sky was thick with smoke; rising in dense black clouds above the blazing oil refineries and the huge stores of rubber which, despite the fact that the town was under shell fire and with enemy bombers circling in the sky overhead, had been set ablaze, not by the Japanese, but by the British and the Dutch themselves so as to prevent them falling into the hands of the enemy.

* * *

Once across the Ogan river, all four of them felt somewhat safer. Ridiculously so, since the Dutch sergeant in charge of the barricade at the southern end of the Wilhelmina Bridge, who, in impeccable English, had given Joe hurried directions to the railway station in Kertapati, also told him to get a move on, as the Japanese were closing in fast and there was no possible way the town could be held. While the airfields at Pangkalanbentengat and Praboemoelih had not yet been captured, with the British and the Dutch woefully short of serviceable aircraft, out gunned, out fought, and running short of ammunition, it was only a matter of time before the two airfields and the town fell.

* * *

 **Railway Station, Kertapati,** **Southern Sumatra, Dutch East Indies, 13th February 1942.**

At the sight of the packed train, standing with steam up in the platform, Simon permitted himself a wry smile, which did not go unnoticed by David.

"What's so funny, Simon?" he asked as they did their best to hurry along after Joe and Doug as they elbowed their way along the crowded platform.

"I was just thinking of something that happened, long before the war, when I was about the age you are now. My father had decided that we would go to Scarborough so that my brother and I could spend the day larking about on the beach, looking for crabs in the rock pools, just like our cousins did over in Ireland. My mother was not at all enamoured of the idea but eventually she agreed to it. We went by train, First Class of course. I remember Mama complaining about how crowded Ripon station was. God knows what she'd have made of all of this!"

With his hand, Simon swept the train, most of which was composed of cattle trucks, full of British and Dutch soldiers, while the carriages were filled to overflowing with European civilian refugees.

* * *

In the end, somehow, with a great deal of pushing and shoving, all four of them, managed to force their way on board one of the cattle trucks, where they then stood, shoulder to shoulder, crammed in like sardines, sweltering in the heat. Even so, very shortly, Simon found himself beginning to shiver.

Then came a sudden jolt.

A ragged cheer swept the train.

At last!

They were on their way.

And then ... nothing.

The train remained exactly where it was, in the station.

Why on earth weren't they getting under way?

Everyone on board the packed train must have realised that it presented a perfect target for the Japanese bombers.

There was another jolt and finally, the long, crowded train began pulling out of the station.

But it was too late.

As now, from the rear, there came frantic shouts of alarm, both in English and in Dutch, quickly drowned out, by the scream of incoming enemy aircraft.

* * *

 **Library, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, afternoon, 8th June 1942.**

If what was written in the letters was true, and the presence of a faded, evidently much thumbed, photograph, a lock of hair, and a Birth Certificate supported that contention, from his knowledge of the law, Matthew knew that there could be no question of transferring Downton to the National Trust; at least not for the present.

He would be aged about twelve or thereabouts ... the boy.

Mention was made of relatives, out East.

So, assuming the lad was still alive, given all that had happened out there, the question yet remained.

Just what had become of him?

* * *

 **Campden Hill Gardens, Kensington, London, early evening, that same day.**

This evening, the journey on the Underground from St. John's Wood, on the Metropolitan, before changing at Baker Street for the Circle Line round to High Street, Kensington - in all just seven stops - seemed to be taking forever when, all Max wanted to do tonight was to get home. Of course, he always looked forward greatly to going home to the flat in Kensington, but this evening, for some strange reason, he wanted to get there far sooner than he knew the service on the Circle Line would permit.

While these days, he could easily have passed for an Englishman, each day on his journey to and from the house in St. John's Wood, given the nature of his work, Max kept himself very much to himself. Hidden behind his newspaper, he remained aloof and to all intents and purposes invisible; as indeed did most of his fellow passengers, even those he saw each day, travelling in and out of town. This, he assumed. was all part of the famous English reserve, of which Mama had spoken, and which here on the Underground manifested itself as a marked disinclination to strike up conversations with complete strangers. These days of course that was probably for the best.

Fortunately, when, at last, the train finally rattled to a stop at High Street, Kensington, Max knew the end of his journey was in sight. Out of the carriage, along the platform ... _Slow down_ , he thought. Even though he was desperate to get home, recently, once again, Max's left knee had been giving him some _jip_ , a word he had picked up from Rob, to whom, the last time they were all together at Downton, Max had, in return, imparted several choice swear words in German. Now, _sedately_ up the station steps, out through the barrier, across street, remembering to look right and then left. Thence up Campden Hill Road before turning into Campden Hill Gardens on which, on the left hand side, at the far end, lay their second floor flat, the whole of the street and much of the surrounding area, dominated by the tall brick Italianate tower of the Grand Junction waterworks.

* * *

Letting himself into the flat, to Max's surprise he saw Claire's coat and hat hanging up in the hallway, realised that she was already home. Unexpectedly so, because that very morning when they parted, she had told him she had a late lecture that evening. That she would be home after he was, which was when he had offered to cook them both supper. Nothing fancy, mind, he had said with a smile. For, despite all of the food parcels sent up to them here in London by Claire's father from the farm down in Devonshire, tonight, once again, it would be spam fritters and chips. Claire pulled a face and Max had laughed; Mama would be appalled.

* * *

Having hung up his coat Max now walked the few steps into the front room, to find Claire sitting on the sofa beside the fireplace. Although she must have heard him come in, surprisingly she did not look up. Instead she remained just where she was, elbows on knees, resting her chin in her hands, staring down at the floor. It was her lack of response which immediately gave Max pause for concern.

Nonetheless, he masked it well enough.

"Hello!" Max said brightly. "You're home early!"

"Hello," replied Claire, still without so much as even raising her head.

"Darling, whatever is it?" he asked, nervously.

At that, she looked up and Max saw that she had been crying.

Having at once crossed the room, despite the growing pain in his left knee, Max knelt before her beside the empty fireplace.  
"You're not ill, are you?" he asked, desperately searching her face for some sign of what it was that was wrong.

"No. Not ill. Not exactly".

"How, not exactly?"

"Max, darling, there's no easy way for me to tell you this".  
"Tell me what? Claire, you're beginning to frighten me".

"I'm ..."  
"Yes?"  
"I'm going to have a baby".

* * *

 **Crawley House, Downton, Yorkshire, late evening, 8th June 1942.**

"Crawley House. Lady Edith Schönborn speaking".

"Mama!"

"Oh, Max, darling, how lovely to hear from you".

Here, in the telephone box on the corner of Campden Hill Gardens Max paused; what he was about to say now froze unspoken on his lips. Mama sounded ... somewhat distrait.

"Are you all right, Mama?"  
"Yes, perfectly, thank you".

"And, Papa and Kurt, are they ..."

"Yes, they're both fine. But ..."

"But what, Mama?"

"Darling, I don't know how to tell you this. It's ... it's your Aunt Mary".  
"What about Aunt Mary?"  
"Well, it seems ... it seems that she's disappeared".

 **Author's Note:**

Messages - groceries.

In 1942, in Ireland, even basic necessities were being rationed, including bread, tea, butter, sugar, soap, toothpaste, candles, paraffin oil, and shoe polish. While meat and eggs were never rationed, there were rumours that the deer in Phoenix Park were going missing, along with animals from Dublin Zoo!

Grizedale Hall in the Lake District was taken over by the War Office in 1939 to house captured German officers. As many of the prisoners were survivors rescued from sunken U-boats, it became known as the "U-Boat Hotel". It was demolished in 1957.

At this time Sumatra and Java were known as the Dutch East Indies, part of the Dutch colonial empire, most of which achieved independence in the aftermath of World War II.

Singa - Singapore.

The lines of poetry quoted are from "Mandalay" by Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936).

Launched in 1932, Tiger beer was Singapore's first locally brewed beer; the original marketing slogan "It's Time for a Tiger" is still used today.

Now called Panjang, Oosthaven was the ferry port for Java.

Opened in 1939, the Wilhelmina Bridge in Palembang was named after the then queen of the Netherlands.

Having survived both world wars unscathed, the spectacular tower of the Grand Junction Waterworks, for well over a century so much a landmark in Kensington, was regrettably demolished in 1970.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

All The World's A Stage

 **Railway Station, Kertapati, Southern Sumatra, Dutch East** **Indies, 13th February 1942.**

As the two Japanese bombers swooped in low out of the sun, flying over the entire length of the crowded refugee train, some of the British and Dutch soldiers sitting on the roofs of the carriages, in fact the only ones of all those on board who were in a position to put up any kind of resistance, now opened up with a sustained barrage of small arms fire at the incoming enemy aircraft.

Amidst the ear-splitting crackle of a multitude of rifles, revolvers, and light machine guns, with bombs exploding in lurid sheets of red and orange flames on either side of the train, in their wake sending up billowing clouds of choking dust and thick black smoke, buzzing like angry hornets a lethal stream of tracer bullets peppered the coaches and cattle wagons, from the inside of which there now came shouts and screams. As elsewhere on board the train, here in the wagon in which Simon and David and the two Australian soldiers were standing crammed together, it was like the Black Hole of Calcutta; the occupants of the cattle truck all jammed in so tightly that, even in the semi darkness within, it was almost impossible to bat an eyelid without those beside one being aware of it, let alone move. And, with no where to take cover, in the ensuing attack, several men were hit, either by bullets or else by splinters of wood.

But, from the cooling breeze which had begun blowing over the perspiring, sweating occupants of the carriages and the cattle trucks, it was clear to Simon that somehow the group of Royal Air Force and Royal Navy chaps on the footplate of the engine were keeping the packed refugee train moving. And which, all the while was slowly gathering speed, steaming out of the station here at Kertapati, bound for Oosthaven some 230 miles to the south, situated on the very furthest tip of Southern Sumatra, overlooking the Sunda Strait which at its narrowest point was barely sixteen miles wide, and separated Sumatra from Java, and safety.

* * *

 **Old Humphrey, Hawkstone Ridge, Downton Abbey Estate, late afternoon, 8th June 1942.**

Despite her private musings as she had ridden over this way on the back of Quicksilver, about the fact that since she and Matthew had been married, she had never looked at another man, as Mary now sat resting her aching head against the inside of the curved stone wall of the old tower, she had to admit that the German – for that was undoubtedly what he was – was undeniably good looking. Whoever he was, presumably either an escaped POW, or else, God forbid, a parachutist, from the look of him probably the former, it was evident that, other than a few words, he spoke little English. And since she herself spoke no German, it was reasonable to assume that the likelihood of any meaningful communication between them was doomed to failure from the outset. In the dim light here within the tower, he reminded her somewhat of Friedrich, which in turn put Mary in mind of Edith, who spoke excellent German. Mary grimaced. That was the trouble with Edith: she was never around when one had need of her.

Nonetheless, as her wits now returned, Mary remembered Quicksilver rearing suddenly on the track down there below the folly and herself being flung from the back of the mare into the bracken where, with memories of what had happened all those years ago on the terrace steps at the villa in Fiesole overlooking Florence, it was safe to say, she must have hit her head. She assumed that Quicksilver must have been spooked by an adder but then again perhaps that had not been the way of it at all. She made to try and rise which did not go unobserved by her captor, who with an expressive wave of his pistol, indicated that Mary should remain precisely where she now was.

At that, Mary lost patience, waving her left hand irritably. She should have been back at Downton long since; Matthew would be beginning to worry.

"Oh, do please stop pointing that ridiculous thing at me, you silly man!" she snapped angrily. And then, much to Mary's infinite surprise, the German did exactly as she had ordered.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, late afternoon, 8th June 1942.**

The ormolu clock on the mantle piece chimed the hour, causing Matthew to turn his head and glance at it. Five o'clock. _And all's well_ , he thought. As Lieutenant Hornblower might well have said. Ha! Matthew smiled. In the circumstances, that was hardly so. Earlier this afternoon, on her leaving, Mary had said that she would be back in time to change for dinner. Of course, women's fashions were far less complicated than had once been the case, and Mary had all but dispensed with the services of a lady's maid, either because of that or simply because she enjoyed a frisson of delight in keeping him waiting, his wife still took her time with her toilette. Even so, she would back soon; even if she had decided to stop off in the village and pay a couple of overdue calls to former members of the domestic staff here at the abbey living out their twilight years on peppercorn rents in a handful of the cottages down there in the village: old Edward Marston was one, a former footman from the time of Matthew's late father-in-law, and Martha Coulson, now aged sixty or thereabouts, was another and who had been in service here at the abbey as a parlour maid until shortly after the end of the Great War when she had married a returning Tommy. Now widowed some ten years, she lived in a small one bedroomed cottage just off Back Lane, not far from the parish church.

Matthew turned back to his desk and began replacing the contents of the Chinese Puzzle Box carefully back inside its secret compartment, although he didn't close it, fearing if he did so, he might not be able to open it again. He shook his head in disbelief. All of this had come about because of a confounded and infernal mischance. What was done, was done. Sighing, Matthew set the box back in its customary place on top of the desk.

How on earth was he going to even begin to tell Mary about what he had just discovered? Matthew knew very well that all three of the Crawley girls, even Sybil - after Robert had finally accepted Tom as a member of the family – had idolised their late father. Saw him as the epitome of the perfect English gentleman. Matthew smiled again. What was it Cousin Violet had once said all those years ago? It was difficult to recall. After all, in her long life, she had said a very great deal; had opinions on everyone and everything and had not been afraid to voice them. Memory now stirred. Something about a family never being quite what it seemed? Well, as in so many things, the old girl, had been very perceptive.

Even so, given the timing of all of this, while Cora was over in the United States, it seemed reasonable to assume that, thankfully, his own late mother-in-law never knew what it was that had occurred. Or did she? What was it Tom had once told him that awful man Wilde had said? Ah, yes. That no man should ever have a secret from his wife as, invariably, she would find it out.

That was indeed true enough; as both he and Tom could well attest, to their cost, and not only in matters of the heart …

 _It had been back in June 1926, when all four of them, Matthew, Mary, Tom, and Sybil, had been over at Langthorpe Hal as guests of the Braithwaites. With the Bransons over at Downton for their annual summer visit, under the guise of acquiring a couple of old army lorries for the benefit of the estate, Tom and he had planned to view a motorcycle - a Brough Superior SS80 – that was for sale over at Thirsk. It had been over one of their frames of billiards, when in hushed tones - Matthew having earlier confided to his brother-in-law that with all the ground floor rooms of the abbey only recently having been rewired he would not have put it past Mary to have had some form of listening device installed surreptitiously in the Billiards Room - that they decided discretion was the better part of valour and that it was best to say nothing to their wives about their planned trip to Thirsk. Only, in the end, that had proved singularly pointless. Mary, being Mary, had found out all about it, thanks, in part, to Sybil finding a newspaper cutting in one of the pockets of Tom's trousers, and then spilling the beans._

Well, hopefully the present matter was the exception that proved the rule, and dearest Cora had gone to her grave in blissful ignorance ... that Robert had been unfaithful to her.

Nonetheless, the problem still remained. God knows how Mary would feel, on learning that her dearly loved late father had been a philanderer. Had fathered a child out of wedlock. On a woman half his age. Lady Astrid Braybourne. An old man's last attachment. Well, perhaps. But the fact remained that Mary would have to be told. Indeed the whole family would have to know. Because, the more he thought about it, from what Matthew himself recalled of the provisions of his late father-in-law's will, the boy, apart obviously from being a much younger half-brother not only to Mary herself, but also to both Edith, and Sybil, was likewise therefore a beneficiary of the same document.

And then there had been that curiously worded codicil, drafted by Horner, Horner & Hardcastle, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths in Fishergate, Ripon, the wording of which had struck him as singularly odd at the time. However, when Matthew had raised the matter with Mr. Ephraim Hardcastle, his concerns had been brushed aside, having been informed curtly that _the reason for its drafting now no longer appertains_.

And there the matter had rested.

Until now.

Though, where on earth the boy was …

As to Lady Astrid, Matthew seemed to recall seeing her name written in one of the old Visitors' Books recalling past house guests here at the abbey but only because the Christian name was so unusual. Otherwise, among all the countless guests there had been here at the abbey down the years it was unlikely that he would have recalled it to mind. Presumably, she would appear in Debrett's.

Now, with this in mind Matthew rose quickly from his chair and reached down the relevant volume from its place on one of the shelves of the Library. Having resumed his seat, he sought the relevant entry and, having found it, scanned down the closely written biographical details until he found what it was he was looking for. Yes, here she was. Astrid, youngest daughter of Lord and Lady Braybourne of Oglethorpe Hall, Lincolnshire … married Captain Giles Cobham, killed at Passchendaele, in September 1918. A war widow then. And no mention made of any second marriage. So, in 1929 she would have been … thirty six. Died at Kuala Lumpur, British Malaya, July 1934. Well, Malaya evidently was the starting point. Or rather it would have been. Had it not been for the fact that British Malaya was now under occupation by the Japanese.

Mary would be back soon ... from her ride over to Old Humphrey. But while the matter had to be addressed, and without delay, Matthew would, he decided, speak to her about all of this after dinner. There was no earthly point in ruining a good meal.

* * *

 **Batoeradja, Southern Sumatra, Dutch East Indies, 13th February 1942.**

Once clear of Kertapati, as the afternoon wore on, the refugee train continued to steam ever southwards, running through the dense jungle which on either side bordered the single line of railway. And, as the train headed away from Palembang, so at last the sky began finally to clear and the sun was once more visible, no longer hidden beneath the enormous palls of smoke rising from the burning oil refineries and the stocks of rubber, set ablaze so as to deny them to the advancing units of the Japanese Imperial Army.

What little could be done for those injured and wounded in the attack on the train was done, the more so some 80 miles further on when the train paused at the station at Batoeradja to load on board yet more wounded military personnel. It was while this was being done, and the locomotive was taking on water that someone shouted that the Nips were coming down the road leading to the station. Whether or not this was true made no difference, as a general cry went up throughout the train to get moving, while those seated on the roofs of the carriages readied themselves in case of yet another attack. However, as things turned out, it was a false alarm. Even so, when but a short while later, and thankfully with still no sign of the Japanese, the train finally steamed off towards Martapoera, everyone on board was very relieved indeed.

Later that same day, the fiery orange orb of the sun at last began to set.

With the flame shot sky of Sumatra having passed through a succession of vivid colours, from azure and indigo to cobalt blue, through crimsom and vermilion, and from magenta to obsidian, while it grew ever darker, beneath a starry sky, the refugee train steamed onwards and from either side of the line, in the depths of the jungle there could be glimpsed the myriad twinkling green, orange, and yellow lights of countless fireflies. And, as the sun now finally disappeared beneath the far distant horizon, Simon found himself contemplating something which Uncle Tom had once said in response to the oft quoted observation that the sun never set on the British Empire. Uncle Tom had said that the day would come when it did. Indeed, out here in the Far East, it was setting now, and in a way in which, until the fall of Singapore, could never have been envisaged, let alone imagined.

Night fell.

And with the coming of the dark, it began to rain heavily, with the temperature, even in the packed carriages and wagons dropping like a stone. Then, having passed one of the most wretched nights of his life, at sunrise the following morning, and thankfully without any further mishap having occurred, Simon caught his first glimpse of the narrow Sunda Strait which separated Sumatra from Java. A short while later, the packed refugee train steamed into the station at Oosthaven and finally came to a stop, only for all of those on board to find that the port was in just as much chaos as Palembang had been, and which it was now being said had fallen to the Japanese.

As they had been in Singapore, so now too here in Oosthaven. Within sight of safety scarce sixteen miles away across the strait, here they all were, trapped with their backs to the ocean, hoping and praying that ships could be found to take all of them across the open sea to safety in Java.

* * *

 **Library, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, early evening, 8th June 1942.**

Standing by the window of the Library, gazing out into the stillness of the sunlit park, Matthew was beginning to worry. It was now six o'clock and Mary had not yet returned from her ride over to Old Humphrey. Even making allowances for her having stopped off to visit Marston and old Mrs. Coulson down in the village, she should have been back long since. Matthew glanced at the clock on the mantle piece. He would give her another fifteen minutes and not a moment longer before ...

There now came a discrete knock at the door.

"Yes?" barked Matthew, more peremptorily than he had intended. He shook his head. Utterly ridiculous! He was letting this business of the contents of the Chinese Box get to him. On top of which there was now Mary's continuing and inexplicable absence. Even though he knew that she had been angered by what it was the two gentlemen from the National Trust had been proposing, Mary would not be so petty as to deliberately go out of her way to worry him like this. It would take time for her to accept what was being canvassed but accept it she must, if Downton was to survive.

However, so far there had been no use forcing the issue, the more so because, given his nature, as well as his past work for the League of Nations in Geneva, Matthew much preferred to win his battles by diplomacy rather than cannonades. Even so, time was running out. That of course was how matters had stood before he had learned about the boy, whose very existence had now thrown everything into the melting pot. But all that aside, there must surely be a rational explanation for why it was that Mary had not yet returned to the abbey.

The Library door opened and Henry, as Matthew still thought of him, even though he was _de facto_ the butler of Downton Abbey, came into the room.

"Beg pardon, Your Lordship, but a message has just come from the stables ..."

* * *

 **Crawley House, Downton, Yorkshire, late evening, 8th June 1942.**

The answer to Max's question, as to just how his own parents, in particular Mama, would react to the news that Claire was expecting a child was, when his mother had recovered somewhat from the initial shock of hearing the news that her elder son had to impart to her and was at last able to speak, was then summed up by Edith herself in two words:

" **Thoroughly irresponsible**!"

"Oh, Mama! Please try to underst ..."

For the present, what with this distressing business of Mary - where on earth was she - Edith was in no mood to be at all charitable, let alone in any sense, understanding.

"Max, I mean what I say! You, of all people, should know the risks involved, of you fathering a child. And, with Claire intending to qualify as a doctor, she must know what those are too. Both of you should have been a great deal more careful, have taken steps to see that ..."

"But Mama, we did. When I say we, I mean I ..."  
"Spare me the details! Max, I don't want to hear another word!" At which point, Edith now handed the telephone over to Friedrich who had come to stand beside her, anticipating that the telephone call had been to do with Mary. Instead of which, standing beside Edith throughout the entire conversation, while of course he only heard what Edith herself had to say, by the end of the call, Friedrich was very well aware of what had come to pass. It was at this point, while Edith went outside into the rear garden to try and compose herself, that Friedrich did what she had not done, and offered Max and Claire his heartfelt congratulations before repeating that, in the circumstances, it was perhaps somewhat unwise. Nonetheless, being rather more phlegmatic than Edith, it was Max's father's considered opinion that while Friedrich fully appreciated the risk that was being run:

"Was geschehen ist, ist geschehen".

Or as Shakespeare put it, _Things without all remedy Should be without regard._

What was done, was done.

* * *

At Crawley House, the one remaining member of the immediate family was absolutely delighted by the unexpected news. While Mama had been on the telephone, unseen, along with Hope, young Kurt had sneaked out onto the landing, and lain on his tummy on the floor, gazing down through the bannisters. Like his father, Kurt understood what it was that had happened, but unaware of the medical implications, was, of them all, as pleased as Punch.

Even so, at nine years old, Kurt's knowledge of just how babies were made was distinctly sketchy. He certainly didn't believe what Alfie Smith had told him when they were in the toilets down at the village school: about the man putting his _Pimmel_ inside the lady. That couldn't be true. Max would never do something as naughty as that. No, the whole idea was just too silly for words. Just like everyone else, Kurt used his _Pimmel_ when he wanted a wee. So, therefore, he reasoned that there must be another explanation. In any event, the how, the why didn't really bother him that much. Claire was having a baby and that was all there was to it. Not only was he a brother-in-law but now at some time in the very near future, he would become an uncle too.

A short while later, as his father put down the receiver, still unobserved, and with Hope padding softly behind him, just as quietly as he had come, grinning broadly, and well pleased, young Kurt quitted the landing and trotted back to bed.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, early evening, 8th June 1942.**

"From Her Ladyship, no doubt?"

"No, My Lord. Well, not exactly".

"What do you mean _not exactly_?"

"Her Ladyship isn't at the stables, My Lord".

"Not at the stables? Then who precisely is the message from?"

"From Foster, Your Lordship. The new ostler at Windrush Farm".

Matthew nodded.

* * *

Originally from Holbeck, midst the grime and squalor of the slums of Leeds, Alec Foster was a registered Conscientious Objector. Several months ago, just after the fall of Singapore, Matthew had received, unexpectedly, a request, from the Chairman of the local tribunal in Ripon which dealt with such matters, and with whom Matthew was slightly acquainted, to find employment on the land hereabouts for a young CO. At the time, with Simon understandably very much in the forefront of his mind, Matthew had agreed that he be employed here on the estate. It was a decision that Matthew was never to regret.

And, as things turned out, Alec Foster had a way with horses, something which even Mary herself both recognised and, if the truth be told, secretly, even envied; learned apparently from time Foster had spent with his father who was a drayman with the Tetley Brewery in Hunslet.

* * *

"Her Ladyship's mare came into the stable yard about half an hour ago. But without Her Ladyship".

"Without Her Ladyship, you say?"  
Henry nodded his head.

"I understand there was some damage to the girth of the saddle".

It was this piece of news which spurred Matthew to action. Everything now pointed to Mary having met with some kind of accident but a search of the immediate area around Old Humphrey revealed nothing other than that the folly appeared to have been used by a tramp or some such person. Until that was, discovery was made of a motorcycle hidden in the bracken.

But of Mary herself, there was still no trace.

None whatsoever.

* * *

 **Rear garden, Crawley House, Downton, Yorkshire, late evening, 8th June 1942.**

Here, outside in the garden, it was now growing dark. Some distance away from the house, Edith sank down wearily on the garden seat and covered her face with her hands. First Mary and now this. Quite how long she remained sitting where she was lost in contemplation she never knew. Then, in the stillness of the summer's night, there came the faintest of clicks which Edith recognised immediately as the latch on the rear gate that led into the meadow at the far end of the garden. Who on earth would be ... Then, on catching sight of a shadowy figure, she recognised in an instant the form of her elder sister:

"Mary! Oh, thank God!" exclaimed Edith. So relieved was she to see her sister, that Edith didn't pause to consider the unexpected and singular strangeness of Mary's sudden unexpected arrival here in the darkening garden at the rear of Crawley House.

But Edith's joy at the sight of Mary, who while slightly dishevelled, was evidently both very much alive and well, was to be short lived; as it was now that Edith saw an unknown man following but a few steps behind her sister and with a pistol, from the look of it, with her knowledge of firearms, a Webley, aimed directly at the small of Mary's back. A moment later, Edith did as she was ordered. She rose to her feet and raised both her hands in the air.

* * *

 **Campden Hill Gardens, Kensington, London, later that same evening.**

"Was it so very awful?" asked Claire who, at Max's insistence had stayed behind in their flat while he, masking the pain from his knee, had gone down to the telephone box at the corner of the street to call and tell his parents that, all things being equal, which of course they were not, early in the New Year, they would become grandparents and young Kurt would be an uncle. A short while later, on his return, with Max once again kneeling before her while for the present unheeded his injured knee screamed its protest, Claire had asked him how his father and mother had taken the news.

"Awful? Yes, pretty much," said Max. His guileless blue grey eyes widened in amazement as the enormity of their situation finally began to dawn.

"And your Aunt Mary ..."  
"Mama says she's disappeared. Apparently, she went out riding on her own earlier this afternoon and still hasn't returned. Mama thinks she might have been thrown ..."  
"Max, darling, aren't you forgetting something?"  
"Forgetting what?"  
"That I've ridden out with her several times. Your Aunt Mary's an excellent rider. That she could have been thrown ... Well, it seems very unlikely".

Max nodded.  
"Well, whatever it is that's happened to her, the local police and workers from off the estate are all out looking for her. Uncle Matthew's dreadfully cut up about it! He's staying at the abbey, in case there's any news, but it doesn't look good".

"Crikey!"

"Changing the subject, tell me now, you're quite certain, about all of this?" Max asked, clearly still faintly disbelieving of what Claire had told him less than an hour or so earlier..  
"As certain as any woman can be. Yes".

"But how …"

"If you're going to ask me how is it that I'm expecting your child, I would have thought that we both know the answer to that well enough".

Despite what she had just said, Claire had to smile when she saw Max's face redden at her words. Bashful was not a word she would ever have used to describe him.

"But … we've been so careful. I mean I always … before ... You know, I ... Well, nearly always". Max ghosted a smile.

Claire shook her head.

"Obviously not careful enough … Besides, what's done is done. In any case, you haven't said … how you feel about becoming a father …" Claire's eyes searched his face.

"Because I never thought I ever would … Just how **am** I supposed to feel? Knowing that any child of ours …" Max fell silent; kept his eyes focused firmly on the rug. The pain in his left knee was growing much worse. He would have to ...

"Yes, I can understand that ..."  
"Well, then …"  
"Max, will you look at me, please".

He raised his head.

"Darling, in medicine, things don't ever stay the same. These days, there are new discoveries being made all the time. That will be that way of it with haemophilia. And one day there **will** be a cure. Of that I'm certain". That Claire believed implicitly and wholeheartedly in the truth of what she was saying was evident from the timbre of her voice. Her eyes shining, she cupped Max's face gently with both her hands. "So, with that in mind …"

Max grinned; hugged Claire to him, covering her face with a smattering of soft kisses.

"Wonderful! We're going to have a baby! All the same, I don't know whether Mama will ever ..." It was now, as if to reinforce most cruelly what they both believed could sadly be the lot of their child, if it was a boy, that Claire saw Max wince in obvious pain.

"What is it?"  
"I should have told you … my left knee …" Clutching his leg, Max crumpled onto the hearth rug.

And, by the end of the week, once again he had been re-admitted to hospital, this time, in a private room, costing five guineas a day, at the West London, on Hammersmith Road.

* * *

 **Crawley House, Downton, Yorkshire, late evening, 8th June 1942.**

There was no denying it. Young Kurt was very excited at the prospect of becoming an uncle and it was this fact that played its part in what now happened and what ever hereafter in these parts came to be known in the annals of both the village and the estate as the Siege of Crawley House.

When he heard voices down there in the hall, and in particular one which he did not recognise, Kurt was under the bedclothes with his torch, reading the latest issue of _The_ _Wizard_ which had been loaned him by Isaac Solomon. Mama didn't approve of much of the comic's content which was why, when earlier today he had come home from school, Kurt had hidden it first under his pullover, then in an old shoebox which he placed on top of the wardrobe, and also explained why it was that he came to be reading it by torchlight under the bedclothes.

It was now, on hearing voices, that curiousity finally got the better of him. Switching off his torch, Kurt scrambled out of bed, quietly opened the door of his bedroom, and padded softly across the landing in his bare feet as far as the bannisters where he knelt down, just in time to see both his parents and Aunt Mary being herded into the Drawing Room at the point of a gun by an unknown man.

Now whether or not what Kurt did next had something to do with the daring deeds of _The Wolf of Kabul_ about which he had been reading in _The Wizard,_ Kurt never knew. What he did know, without a shadow of a doubt, was that he loved both his parents desperately, and Aunt Mary too. And if they were in danger, then he had to do his very best to help them. But how? He had to do something. But what? The best person to ask was his Uncle Matthew ... only he was well over a mile away up at the abbey. Without further ado, and without turning on the light, in the darkness, back in his bedroom, Kurt struggled into his clothes. Then, followed by Hope, he tiptoed quietly down the stairs.

Ahead of him, to his dismay, Kurt saw that the Drawing Room, which lay between him and the passage which led to the rear of the house, stood open. Fortunately, luck was with him for, peering cautiously round the door Kurt saw that the unknown man had his back to him; was standing facing Papa, Mama, and Aunt Mary who were all gathered together over by the fireplace. "Sie werden nicht durchkommen," Kurt heard his father say, telling the man that it was pointless, and that he should give himself up. At that, Kurt saw the man shake his head; said that he would do as he intended and that he would take Aunt Mary with him, "als Geisel". The army and the police would stay well away if he had the Gräfin with him.

Something must have alerted Mama to Kurt's presence in the passage because he saw her glance towards the open doorway, at which point Kurt smiled, gave her a quick thumbs up, pressed his forefinger to his lips, and then shrank back out of sight, but not before he heard Mama saying she felt faint, asking if she could sit down as she had a headache. At that, Kurt grinned; Mama never felt faint. Now, as the adults moved further into the room, Kurt seized his chance. In a flash, he was across the open doorway and then, like a Will-o-the-Wisp, he was gone.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, a short while later.**

Moments later, with Hope gambolling beside him, Kurt was on his bicycle, and riding like the wind through the village in the darkness of the summer night, on his way to the abbey. After what seemed like an eternity but which, in reality, could have been only about a quarter of an hour, in a flurry of flying gravel, ringing the bell of his bicycle furiously, Kurt screeched to a stop in front of the main door of the house. Lady Luck was with him once again as, with there still being no sign of Mary, Matthew was outside, standing on the front steps of the house, considering with the police and workers from off the estate as to what now should be done.

"Uncle Matthew, Uncle Matthew! Mama and Papa, and Aunt Mary ..." yelled Kurt jumping off his bicycle and throwing himself into his uncle's outstretched arms.

"Steady on old chap! Now, tell me, what, about Aunt Mary and your Mama and Papa?" asked Matthew kneeling down on the gravel with his hands on Kurt's shoulders.

In a babbling stream of words, Kurt poured out what was happening down at Crawley House. Even before his nephew had finished his tale, Matthew was on his feet and crisply giving orders as to what should be done. Then, promising Kurt that all would yet be well, Matthew asked gently that he now go inside with Henry and wait here at the abbey for news, both of his parents and his Aunt Mary.

* * *

 **Crawley House, Downton, later that same evening.**

Under cover of darkness, and unknown to those within its walls, Crawley House was quickly surrounded on all sides by members of the local constabulary and the Yorkshire Home Guard, Matthew now having learned first hand of the escaped German POW from Grisedale Hall and whom it was assumed was the man now holed up here in Downton. But, when the time came to make their presence known, Matthew insisted that he himself should go up to the front door of the house to explain to the escaped German officer that his position was hopeless and that, to avoid any bloodshed, he must surrender forthwith. When Captain Rawson of the Home Guard remonstrated with him, that the earl of Grantham was placing himself in undue danger, Matthew's answer came promptly.

"Captain, may I remind you that it is my wife and my brother and sister-in-law who are in there. Besides which, I assured my young nephew that I would see to it that his parents came back safe and well. And I intend to see that they do. With or without your permission". At which point, without further ado, giving the captain no alternative but to order his men to hold their fire, Matthew swiftly turned, quickly opened the wrought iron gate, walked briskly up the path, and knocked hard on the front door of Crawley House. A moment later, the door opened, and Matthew stepped inside.

A short while later, the front door reopened.

Accompanied by Kapitänleutnant Müller, as he now knew him to be, Matthew came out onto the front steps and called for Captain Rawson. As he made his way towards them, watched by Mary, Friedrich and Edith, with Friedrich translating, Matthew said goodbye to the Kapitänleutnant and, having shaken him by the hand, added that he hoped one day they would meet again, in happier times.

"Sie zeigte großen Mut," said Müller as, having handed over to Matthew the pistol that he had acquired with ease from off a British army officer asleep on a seat on a quiet railway platform, he now quitted the front steps under armed guard.

"The Kapitänleutnant said that you are a very brave man," said Friedrich.

"Maybe," said Matthew softly, as he watched the German officer depart under armed escort, grateful that Captain Rawson had followed his suggestion that handcuffs were not necessary. "But bravery had nothing to do with it. However, speaking of brave men, there's someone I would like all of you to meet".

* * *

 **Entrance Hall, Downton Abbey, later that same night.**

"And here he is!" exclaimed Matthew, and with obvious pleasure, as on their return here to the abbey, Kurt bounded into the entrance hall. "A very brave and resourceful young man whom I am very proud to have as a nephew of mine!"

"Mama! Papa!"

Young Kurt fairly barrelled into the open arms of his parents who proceeded to make the greatest possible fuss of him. Then, out of the corner of his eye, catching sight of Mary, Kurt smiled shyly across at his aunt, who likewise smiling, now beckoned him over.

"My knight in shining armour! Darling Kurt. Never will I forget what you did tonight. For me. For all of us. And, just as you were here for me, so will I be for you". At that, ignoring her sciatica, Mary went down on her knees on the cold stone flagged floor, hugging her nephew tightly to her, and covering his face with kisses.

Kurt would have to cause to remember his aunt's generous words when, as his whole world crumbled about him, as she had promised, she was there for him in the hour of his greatest need.

* * *

 **Library, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, morning, 10th June 1942.**

"What do you mean, you knew?" Matthew sounded aghast. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"I take it you mean about … David?"  
"Yes, of course, about David".

"Well, what exactly is there to tell?"

"I should have thought there was a very great deal to tell. Mary, darling, you do realise that his very existence means that it is quite possible that neither of us have any right to all of this and jeopardises what I'm trying to put in place with the National Trust?" Matthew spread his hands expansively.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Well, even if he's illegitimate, it could be argued ... at least by some ... that he may very well have a prior claim over me to this whole estate".

"How do you know he's illegitimate?"  
"Well, isn't he?"

For the moment Mary said nothing. Her silence spoke volumes. Then the truth of it, thought Matthew was as he had suspected.

"A prior claim over you to this estate? Don't be bloody ridiculous!"

"I'm not being ridiculous". Matthew forbore to swear. "But given the fact that he's your father's bas ..." Matthew stopped. He couldn't bring himself to say what needed to be said.

Mary gasped.

"That he's Papa's **bastard**? Is **that** who you think David is?"

Matthew flushed to the very roots of his thinning fair hair. Never had he expected ever to hear Mary say such a thing. But then again, never would he have expected this of his late father-in-law.

"Well, **isn't** he?"

Then, when all seemed lost, Mary did what he would never expected of her.

She burst out laughing.

"I'm sorry, Matthew, but this is all too silly for words".

"Silly?"

Mary nodded before turning on her heel and, with evident difficulty stifling another laugh, walking over to where the tantalus stood on the table beside the fireplace. Having poured a generous amount of brandy into two glasses, she returned with them and handed one to Matthew.

"Here, I think you'll be needing it. Cheers!"

Matthew looked at her completely nonplussed.

"I don't understand ..."  
"Evidently ... "  
"If David's not your father's child, then just who is he?"

"Matthew, darling, may I suggest we both sit down?"  
Matthew did as Mary had suggested.

"So then ..."  
"David's mother Astrid was Papa's god daughter. After her husband was killed in the war, she had a succession of affairs, including one with the man who was David's father".

"Then, why on earth didn't she marry him?"  
"Darling, for someone who is so intelligent, at times you can be remarkably stupid".

The reality of the situation now dawned.

Matthew smiled at his wife.

"Because he was married already".

Mary nodded.

"Exactly so. When Astrid found she was expecting a child, almost her whole family disowned her. She asked Papa for help and, being the **honourable** man he was, he set up a trust fund for her unborn child and arranged to pay her passage out to her brother in Malaya. Knowing that all of this was yet a further financial burden on the estate, at the time Papa swore me to secrecy. Of course I should have told you and I'm sorry now that I didn't, but it was about the time that silliness over the comtesse de Roquebrune began. You and I weren't getting along ... I suppose Papa knew it would all come out in the end but, given the fact that he died soon afterwards, that was the very last I ever heard of Astrid. Until now. I didn't even know that she'd had a little boy. Of course, I'm sorry to hear that she's dead. But as to what's become of David, given what's happened out there ..."

* * *

 **Village Hall, Downton, Yorkshire, evening, 26th June 1942.**

At the sight of the poster plastered to the porch of the Village Hall - "Don't You Know That There's A War On?" - Mary grimaced. With all that had befallen the Bransons, the Crawleys, and the Schönborns in the last four years, **THAT** was hardly something of which she herself needed to be reminded. But, even if there was a war on, thought Mary, as she settled herself down, insofar as that was at all possible on a slatted seat borrowed from the cricket pavilion, **THIS** was quite beyond the call of duty.

Having dangled before her eyes the delightful prospect of a trip up to town, against Mary's own better judgement, Matthew had managed to prevail upon her to come down here to the Village Hall tonight, along with both Rebecca and Emily, to sit with the hoi polloi, comprising workers from off the estate, villagers, and a whole host of others, to watch the Downton Players eagerly anticipated production of _Peter Pan_.

Unlike Edith, Mary was not an avid reader. Even so, rather than being down here at the Village Hall, she would much preferred to have retired early to bed to continue reading _Gone With the Wind_ , which Edith had recommended to her.

 _Scarlett O'Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were._

Right from that very opening line, Mary had become engrossed with the story and was enjoying the novel immensely, partly on account of the fact that she readily identified with the feisty Scarlett; someone who like Mary herself had seen her whole life turned upside down by war. Not of course that Mary had had to contend with Downton Abbey being burned to the ground like Twelve Oaks, or looted like Tara. But, with the likelihood of the estate being signed over to the National Trust, and with the American Independence Day Celebration being held at the abbey in just over a week or so's time, the prospect of having marauding Yankees metaphorically riding up the drive was only all too real. And so, amid a very great deal of chattering and shuffling of feet, while those seated here in the audience at the Village Hall grew impatient for the curtain to rise and the show to begin, Mary found herself wondering, with the Yankees about to descend on the abbey, in the absence of there being a well in which to hide it, whether Henry should be instructed to lock away the family silver.

With Saiorse pleading her pregnancy, she and Robert, who had returned unexpectedly here on leave, had both remained up at the house. Not that Mary begrudged them their privacy. The more time they and the twins spent together the better, especially after what she had learned from a long talk she had had with Saiorse a few days ago. Thankfully no lasting damage had been done. They were young and would weather the storm. After all, these things happened; the more so in wartime. What mattered was how one dealt with them. It was such a shame that something unavoidably required Robert's presence in York in the morning and which, since he had been so guarded about it, Mary assumed, concerned the ghastly forthcoming "do" involving the Americans. Thereafter Robert was off on the one o'clock train back to his new base at RAF East Wretham down near Thetford, in distant Norfolk.

And talking of things happening ...

Mary glanced discretely along the row in which they were all seated, to where Max and Claire were sitting, he with his arm placed lovingly around her shoulders and evidently whispering sweet nothings to each other. Who ever would have thought that young Max, as Mary still thought of him, would have found a love so rare and true? Even so, tonight they both seemed somewhat subdued. As well they might, if Edith had done as she had told Mary she intended doing, and had stern words with them regarding Claire's condition after their arrival on the evening train.

It was such a shame that Tom and Sybil, along with young Dermot, could not be here tonight, but in the circumstances that was simply not possible. However, to make up for their absence, they had sent a lengthy telegram containing their very best wishes for tonight's performance which, as things turned out, would continue to be talked about by everyone for a very long time, well after the smell of greasepaint had quite faded away. And for a reason which, much to the disgust of Gregory Cuthbertson, had nothing whatsoever to do with the undoubted excellence of the production.

* * *

As the second half of the pantomime now drew towards its inevitable close, even Mary had to admit that the whole show had been very well staged, in the course of which she had surprised both herself and Matthew by joining in enthusiastically with the rest of the audience with their boos, their cheers, their hisses, and their sighs. While everyone in the company acquitted themselves very well in their respective roles, Mary thought that, as The Crocodile, darling Kurt all but brought the house down, crawling across the stage in his crocodile costume with his loudly ticking alarm clock. Then again, perhaps she was being prejudiced, given the fact that she now had a very soft spot for her young Austrian nephew who had played such a prominent role in what, in a very short space of time, had become known as the Siege of Crawley House.

But, if the truth be told, it was someone else who really stole the show, someone who had nothing whatsoever to do with Gregory Cuthbertson's beloved production of J. M. Barrie's much loved _Peter Pan_.

* * *

When it happened, it did so almost at the very end of the play.

Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, that anyone could then determine, Edith, in the role of Mrs. Darling, broke off from what she was saying and now rose to her feet.

"Oh, my God!"

As she stood staring intently, seemingly transfixed by something which had caught her attention at the rear of the Village Hall and, as equally unexpectedly, the lights now flicked on, an audible ripple ran round the packed room. People in the audience began to point, to turn on the benches and on the seats, to stand, to try and see what it was that had brought about the sudden cessation of tonight's performance.

Seated in the front row of the audience, Gregory Cuthbertson was almost apoplectic. That all **his** hard work should have been brought to nought.

"What on earth ..." began Mary as, along with both Rebecca and Emily, she saw that Matthew too had risen to his feet. And, in the very same second that she herself turned, unbidden, Mary's hand flew to her mouth as, standing in the doorway of the Village Hall, she now saw a slim, sun burned young soldier. Disbelieving of her own eyes, Mary rose to her feet; made to start forward.

 _Down the gravelled path she flew, skimming lightly as a bird, her faded skirts streaming behind her, her arms outstretched._

Well, not quite.

Simon grinned and shook his head.

"No, Mama, don't move. Let me be the one to come to you".

 **Author's Note:**

Black Hole of Calcutta - a tiny dungeon in Fort William, Calcutta, India where troops of Siraj ud-Daulah, the Nawab of Bengal, held British prisoners of war after the Bengali army captured the fort in June 1756.

The phrase "the empire on which the sun never sets" has been used to describe several past empires; not just the British.

Lieutenant Hornblower: the fictional creation of C. S. Forester, whose novels concerning the adventures of Horatio Hornblower, a British naval officer, are set during the Napoleonic Wars. The first story was published in 1937 and the last in 1962. Three of the novels were used as the basis for the highly successful BBC TV series "Hornblower".

At this time, Holbeck possessed some of the worst slums in Leeds. Hunslet was home to various engineering industries, as well as being where the Tetley Brewery was situated. Founded in 1822, it closed in 2011. During much of this period, within the city of Leeds, many deliveries of Tetley beer were made by the brewery's horse drawn drays.

Claire was being over optimistic. For those suffering from haemophilia, effective treatment was still many years in the future with most of the advances, and a detailed understanding of the condition, coming only well after the end of the Second World War. Even today, in 2016, while haemophilia can be managed, there is still no cure. And, despite what is said in the film "Nicholas and Alexandra" (1971), regarding the birth of the Tsarevich in 1904 no test then existed to confirm whether or not a baby had haemophilia. The situation was no different in 1943. All that could be done, as forty years earlier, was to wait on events.

Not that they would have known it at the time, but in the case of Max and Claire, no son of theirs would suffer from haemophilia but any daughter born to them would be a carrier. And, while the law in the United Kingdom, as it then stood, did permit abortion before 28 weeks this could only be undertaken legally when a woman's mental or physical health was in danger. Back street abortions obviously took place but, apart from being illegal, the health risks to the mother were very high.

The Wizard - a long running British story paper (comic) for boys which first appeared in 1922. The daring exploits of "The Wolf of Kabul" were a regular feature. During WWII, because of shortages of both paper and ink, it was published every fortnight.

 _Down the gravelled path she flew ..._ \- Gone With The Wind, Chapter 30.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

Postcards From Galway

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, 26th June 1942.**

After all the excitement of the last few hours, by which she did not mean either the sustained applause which followed the interrupted ending of the staging of _Peter Pan_ down at the Village Hall or Edith beaming at everyone as if she was Margaret Lockwood, understandably, Mary found herself unable to sleep.

With the cast of the pantomime taking several well deserved curtain calls, in the end, Gregory Cuthbertson was more than well satisfied, even if Simon's own dramatic re-appearance had caused a slight hiatus in the proceedings. And, after the performance was over, as the Crawleys themselves quitted the Village Hall, Simon and his mother both arm in arm, good wishes abounded, with several calls of _Good Luck, Master Simon, Good to see you back,_ and so forth.

When, all those years ago, Granny had said that the abbey was turning into a third rate hotel with one never knowing quite who was going to fetch up next or indeed just how long they were going to stay, she had been right. What with the boys from St. Dominic's having taken over half the house for the foreseeable future and now on their return tonight as they walked into the entrance hall ...

"Papa, Mama, there's someone, I'd like you to meet. This is David ..."

* * *

 **Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, Ireland, August 1942.**

When the baby was born, arriving several days early, Sybil's labour only lasted three and a half hours. Much to Tom and Sybil's relief, not only was the child born healthy but the new arrival in the Branson family turned out to be a little girl. Privately, both of the proud parents had been hoping that the baby would be female and which thus avoided there being any comparison, however well intentioned, between the new arrival and darling Bobby. After some deliberation, Tom and Sybil named their new little girl, Ailis.

"And which is pronounced precisely how?" asked Mary with Tom having spelt out for her the little girl's name letter by letter over the telephone.

"You say _ay lish_ ," explained Tom, his speech slightly slurred, on account of the several glasses of whiskey with which he had wet the baby's head.

"She looks just like Sybil. I rather hoped she would".

* * *

 **Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, September 1942.**

"Well, if you really are quite certain ..." Tom demurred.  
"I am".

"And, with the baby, you feel up to it for sure?"

Sybil raised her eyebrows.

"I do. But what about you?"

"Me? Fit as a fiddle".  
"Tom, darling ..."

He shrugged.

"Sybil, darlin', despite all that Dr. Trevelyan said, I feel perfectly fine".

"And the tablets he prescribed for you ..."

Tom nodded.

"You **are** taking them?"  
"For sure!"

"I'm very glad to hear you say so".

Their eyes met in a smile over the baby's head.

"All right then. If only for auld lang syne!"

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, September 1942.**

"From where, did you say?" asked Mary, now setting down her teacup back in its saucer.

* * *

Ordinarily, of course, she would have breakfasted upstairs alone in their bedroom but, as people kept telling her, _there was a war on_. More importantly today, for once, both Matthew and she were up early, in order so as to catch the London train from Ripon. This explained why the two of them, along with the rest of the family here present, with the exception of Saiorse who, despite her advancing pregnancy, was seeing to the twins up in the nursery, were partaking of breakfast in the Dining Room.

Well, thought Mary, she was partaking; Matthew on the other hand ... was ... **wolfing** down a generous second helping of both eggs and bacon, as if they were going out of fashion, which with the continued rationing, was not so very far from the truth. That, and the fact, that it was unlikely, or so Mary had heard tell, there would be a restaurant car on the express.

And with food still very much on her mind, Mary turned to considering their forthcoming trip up to London. While a suite had been reserved for them at the Savoy, of more immediate concern to Mary was just what the hotel would be serving up later today for luncheon. Why, only last week, dear Diana Mowbray's experience there had been positively awful; with something on the menu called Woolton pie and which, when Diana had enquired, somewhat unwisely in Mary's opinion, as to the precise nature of its contents, she had been assured by the waiter that it contained steak.

Only of course it didn't.

But, _there was a war on_ ; which, however true that might be, was, reflected Mary, the excuse being used these days by one and all for a continued and seemingly inexorable and irreversible decline, both in service and in all manner of standards. After luncheon there was yet another meeting with the gentlemen from the National Trust, followed by afternoon tea at Claridge's, supper at the Ritz where they were being joined by Max and Claire, and then, assuming of course that the bloody Luftwaffe didn't decide to come calling - Robert had assured her it was unlikely - all four of them were going on to the theatre to see a performance of Noel Coward's _Blithe Spirit_.

* * *

Matthew studied the picture on the postcard which showed a fast flowing river, crossed by a wooden bridge, and with a range of mountains in the background.

"Ballinahinch, wherever that maybe". He turned the postcard over. "And postmarked from Galway," added Matthew, continuing to read avidly whatever it was Tom had written on the back of the postcard, seemingly oblivious to the egg now running down his chin. Honestly, thought Mary, at times Matthew really was so terribly middle class.

" **Galway**?"

"Pater, you've got egg all over your chin". Simon winked at David who was seated between both Rebecca and Emily on the other side of the table. The two girls laughed.

"Oh, have I? Thank you, old chap". Matthew dabbed ineffectively several times at his chin with his napkin and then grinned conspiratorially at David; was very relieved when he saw the boy return his smile. At last it seemed that all their patient kindness was beginning to pay off and that, albeit not before time, the young lad was starting to come out of his shell.

"There! Is that better?" asked Matthew.  
"Much!" laughed Rebecca. She too smiled at David.

"So, will I do?"  
"Yes," said Emily just as promptly and laughed.

"Galway's in Ireland, Mama".

"Yes, thank you, Simon. Even if I haven't travelled quite as extensively as have you, I am not completely unaware of the geography of the British Isles".

Once upon a time, and not so very long ago, Simon would have been embarrassed by his mother's faint rebuke but, given what he and so many others, including David, had been through, out there in the Far East, he took it with equanimity and smiled. For his part, glancing out of the window, Papa seemed not even to have noticed.

"Well, it looks like today will be a beautiful day. So, while your mother and I are occupied up in town, what are all you lot going to do?"

 _You lot_ , well really, thought Mary.

* * *

At Downton, young David Braybourne was slowly beginning to feel more at home here in the great old house, especially after the unexpected link between himself and the Crawleys, in the person of his late godfather Robert Crawley, fifth earl of Grantham, was revealed. It had been a chance in a million which had led to Simon and he meeting up out there in the Far East. And, as Mary herself remarked to Matthew on the night that Simon, with David in tow, arrived back here at Downton, while this kind of thing was rather more Edith's province than her own, some things were clearly meant to be.

Both Matthew and Mary were equally in agreement that if David was happy to do so, then he should remain here at Downton, at least until the war ended, and it could be ascertained what had become of his aunt and uncle who had refused steadfastly to leave their rubber plantation out in what had been British Malaya and which was now under brutal occupation by the Japanese. So, while Matthew quietly put in hand arrangements for David to follow in the footsteps of both Robert and Simon and begin school at Ripon in the autumn, accompanied by Simon, Mary took David into town to buy him some new clothes. Later on, she told him, they could both go into Ripon once again in order to see about the purchase of both a school uniform and sports kit to boot.

But, what they all agreed David needed most of all was a chance to recover from the ordeal he had been through. In this he was helped greatly by the strong bond which, quite understandably, had developed between himself and Simon during their madcap flight across Sumatra, coming hard upon the sinking of the _Eurydice_ and what came after, and which Simon imparted to his horrified parents a day or so after his return to Downton.

And, as time went on, it seemed that Rebecca, who up until now had not expressed the slightest interest in boys, had taken rather a shine to David as well.

* * *

 **Connemara, County Galway, Ireland, September 1942.**

So far, given how wet it could be over in this part of Ireland, for the last few days, the early autumn weather, had been very kind to them.

Although neither Tom or Sybil had been back to the far north west coast of Ireland since as long ago as the autumn of 1919, here in the beautiful, remote, wild fastness that was Connemara, on their arrival in these parts, at least to the adult Bransons, despite the passage of twenty odd years, it really did seem as if somehow time had conspired to stand still. For, despite the exigencies of the Emergency, while it did not do to enquire too closely as to where they came from, out here, along with petrol, certain foodstuffs were in far better supply than they were over in Dublin. This apart, nothing hereabouts seemed to have changed.

Of course this was not quite true.

For one thing, the railway line, on which they had travelled all those years ago, which ran west from Galway, over to Clifden, had closed down as long ago as 1935. And, from a conversation which Tom overheard between two grizzled old locals in a bar, where he had stopped to ask for directions to where it was they were staying - Currarevagh House at Oughterard - whose owners, Tom had learned through one of his many contacts, took in paying guests so as to try and make ends meet, there was a rumour doing the rounds hereabouts that when, finally, the rails had been removed for scrap, they had been sold to a German company, melted down for the making of bomb casings, and used in the Blitz on London. Something, from which, because those who had endured the bombing were English, the two old men seemed to derive a certain amount of grim satisfaction. To Tom this was an abhorrent view; one which he himself did not, and never would, share; the more so because the previous year it had been German bombs which had rained down on the Northside of Dublin, and in the process killed darling Bobby. Returning to the motor, Tom had been on the point of mentioning all of this to Sybil but then thought better of it.

More to the point, when last they had been here, Ireland as a free and independent country did not exist, and was still then very much a part of the United Kingdom. A possession too of the far flung British Empire which, as Tom pithily observed and with some degree of relish, as he and Sybil were walking arm in arm, barefoot back along the strand, was, with the Japanese half way to the jewel in the crown that was India, presently disappearing at a rapid rate of knots from off the surface of the globe. With them now in sight of both Dermot and Declan who, with the permission of his parents, had been allowed to come along to keep Dermot company, the two boys sitting by a rock pool minding Ailis in the perambulator while he and Sybil had gone for a stroll, Tom waved his hand in friendly greeting.

Out to sea, the tide was already on the turn, with the clouds already gathering and the sky beginning to darken, it looked as though a spell of heavy rain was likely before nightfall. Time then that they were all back at the house and indoors. After supper, write a few postcards, then perhaps a quiet game of backgammon or chess with Dermot or Declan, or else even a game of cards with everyone joining in, and then bed. For, despite what Tom had said when the trip to Connemara had first been mooted, even with most of it having been made by train and with the two boys seeing to all the luggage, the journey had proved both long and very tiring. Although he said nothing to Sybil, Tom himself was exhausted and was looking forward to an early night.

* * *

 **Crawley House, Downton, Yorkshire, England, September 1942.**

Hearing footsteps approaching her rapidly from somewhere behind, Edith turned and saw it was darling Kurt, just back from afternoon school, running hot foot across the grass towards where she was sitting in a wicker chair out in the garden at the rear of Crawley House. As he reached her, his mother smiled.

"Hello, Mama". Without waiting for her to reply, Kurt kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Can Isaac come to tea today?" he asked breathlessly and with a winning smile which, like that of his brother, never failed to melt her heart. That she indulged Kurt, Edith knew very well to be the case; this partly because he was such a lovable child, also because of what Kurt had been through in the aftermath of the sinking of the Lancastria, and then how bravely he had acquitted himself in the Siege of Crawley House. But also because through him, Edith was able to witness a young boy growing up as he should, carefree, and without the worries caused by constant ill health as had been the case with darling Max.

" **May** Isaac come to tea," admonished his mother gently. "Yes, of course he may".

"That's good," laughed Kurt completely unabashed.

"Why _good_?" asked Edith, well aware what her young son's answer might be.

"Because he's already in the kitchen helping Mrs. Braithwaite lay out the tea things and because ... because he's feeling a bit down. What's that?" Kurt asked changing the subject rapidly, having now caught sight of the colourful card lying on the table beside his mother.  
"A postcard. It came this afternoon".

"Who's it from?" asked Kurt, hanging on the back of his mother's chair.

"From Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil," explained Edith, grateful for a chance to set down her darning, something at which she had become extremely proficient back in the '20s when out on digs in Mesopotamia and where the opportunity for purchasing new socks or other items of clothing for Friedrich or herself, except on one of their rare trips to Baghdad, was non existent. When, only a few days ago, she had suggested to Mary that she might like to learn how to darn as a way of making further economies, her elder sister had been horrified, Mary assuming a facial expression akin to someone who had swallowed arsenic.

"Would you like to read it - that is if you can decipher your Aunt Sybil's handwriting". Kurt nodded and his mother handed him the postcard which depicted a country lane in Galway, with a little girl, watched by two other children, patting a pannier laden donkey on its nose.

"May I? Thank you".

"Hello, Isaac. How are you today?" Edith asked, seeing Kurt's young friend heading towards them across the wide sweep of the lawn.

"Hello, Mrs. S. Fine, thanks!"

Right from their very first meeting, when Kurt brought him home, young Isaac, who had the slightest of stammers, but who nonetheless still found pronouncing the family surname of Schönborn more than a little difficult, had always called Edith _Mrs. S_ \- something which she herself had suggested. On learning of this, Mary had been horrified, considering that it was hardly befitting of her rank and vouchsafed to the young Jewish evacuee a degree of over familiarity. Not that Edith saw it this way at all. Out here in the brightness of the sunlit garden, despite his cheerful answer to her question, Isaac's woebegone expression did not go unnoticed.

"Still no news?" Edith asked gently.

Isaac shook his head.

* * *

While the Germans might well have suffered significant setbacks both at El Alamein and Stalingrad, and with the Americans having inflicted a devastating defeat on the Japanese navy at the Battle of Midway, thus putting an end to their hitherto triumphant advance across the Pacific, the war was far from over. And in relation to young Isaac Solomon, terrible reports were now beginning to find their way into the newspapers here in England, regarding what was happening to the Jews both in Germany and in countries occupied by the Nazis. Isaac's family up in London had relatives in the Netherlands and in Poland and, since the occupation of both, there had been no word of what had become of them.

* * *

"How did you get on?" Edith asked as Friedrich who, just as the clock on the church tower was striking four, now appeared beside her, back from the bee hives down at the end of the garden.

"Very well; the bees are thriving in all this warm weather". The chimes of the church clock faded away. Friedrich smiled. "And while it may not be ten to three, yes, as your Rupert Brooke put it, there will be honey for tea! Boys, would you like to help me collect it?"

"Yes, please, sir," said Isaac.

Kurt grinned.

"Ike, you go with Papa. There's something I want to ask Mama".

While Isaac and Kurt's father went off back down to the hives, once he was certain that they they were well out of earshot, Kurt now turned to his mother.

"Mama?"  
"Yes, darling?"  
"Mama, may I ask you something?"  
"Yes, of course. About what?"  
Kurt took a deep breath and drew himself up to his full height; all four feet four inches of him. There was no going back now.

"Babies," he said and let out a deep sigh.

* * *

 **Tea Rooms, York Railway Station, 27th June 1942.**

The vast arched glass and iron roof of the huge station bore witness to the heavy bombing which had so devastated the city only a matter of days before the raid on Exeter in which Max and Claire had so nearly lost their lives. While the railway tea rooms were crowded with all manner of service personnel, amongst a sea of British Army khaki and RAF blue, there was only one French officer present, and who, Robert determined, must be Captain Perrault. With introductions having been made, they shook hands, and then sat down. Having ordered something to drink, they fell to discussing what it was that had brought them together ... Marie; not only the captain's sister but also Robert's mistress.

* * *

 **Currarevagh House, Oughterard, Connemara, County Galway, Ireland, September 1942.**

"In a word, very unpleasant," said Sybil.

"That's two words," chuckled Tom. Today he felt much more like his old self.

"Pedant!" exclaimed Sybil, who was sitting up in bed breast feeding Ailis, while rain drummed against the panes of the window.

"And there's no real cure?"

"For the dysentery? No. Apart from keeping oneself clean and drinking plenty of fluids, it has to take its course. As for the malaria, quinine. Although, even then, it can reoccur. Thankfully, from what Mary says here, he does now seem to be over the worst of it and on the mend.

Despite Tom's aversion to matters medical regarding himself, that did not preclude a passing interest in the ailments of others. Just now they were discussing what, according to Mary's last letter, it was that Simon had been diagnosed with and which, until he recovered sufficiently, had caused him, along with many others, to be invalided home to England: malaria, made worse, in his case, by dysentery.

"Will he have to go back to the army?"

"Mary didn't say. But, I would expect so. Yes".

* * *

Mary had been disingenuous with what she had told Tom and Sybil about Simon. He would **not** be returning to the army.

* * *

 **Russell Square, Bloomsbury, London, September 1942.**

Overlooked by the magnificent Russell Hotel, where Max had stayed with his father back when he was a boy in the summer of 1936, Claire and Max had met here for lunch in the square of the same name. Sitting in a quiet corner, surrounded by trees, all of which were still in leaf, save for the drone of the traffic, they could almost make believe they were elsewhere, other than here in the heart of London.

Claire unwrapped the sandwiches - cheese and Branston pickle - and handed half to Max. At least he would be pleased as Max had become rather partial to Branston. She had made the sandwiches herself this very morning, along with filling them a thermos flask of tea. Suffering badly from the effects of morning sickness, slowly, almost mechanically, Claire began to eat. Max did likewise. It was not much but, hopefully, they would make up for this rather meagre fare when they dined with Uncle Matthew and Aunt Mary later tonight at the Ritz.

"Oh, by the way ... After you left this morning, this came for us".

"A postcard?" asked Claire, clearly surprised.

Max nodded his head.

"From Ireland. It's from Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil. Here".

Max handed her the card, on the front of which was shown a heavily laden horse drawn trap. The conveyance looked extremely uncomfortable, something which was emphasised by the stonily set faces of its four passengers. Behind the trap there could be seen a lake which, with a range of mountains in the background, served to remind Max of the vanished splendours of Rosenberg.

 _Weather is fine hereabouts. Your Aunt Sybil and I are enjoying a short holiday over here in Galway. Our little girl is doing well. Dermot has a school friend along to keep him company. Hope all is well with you both for sure._

 _Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil_

Claire handed him back the postcard and which, having looked at the picture once more, Max now stuffed away inside his jacket.

"It reminded me ... of the lake ... at Rosenberg. One day, I should so very much like to show you," he said wistfully.

Claire caught his mood; gently she laid her hand on his knee.

"And you will. Trust me, you will".

"Will I? Sometimes I wonder ... if any of us will ever go back there. What with the war ... It just goes on and on ..." Max shook his head; sat gazing down mournfully at the ground.  
"Max, darling, what it is it? Look, I know you've had a couple of bad spells recently but we've weathered those before and we will do so again. It's not like you to be mawkish".

"It's ..."  
"What?"

"I shouldn't say ... Promise me you won't repeat a word of what I tell you ..."  
"Of course ... if that's what you want".

Max glanced about him, although, seated where they were, the likelihood of them being overheard was non existent.

"We had some information come to us, just the other day ... from the Poles. About what's happening to the Jews, over there in Europe. We've heard such things before ... and it seems unbelievable ... but the Nazis are said to be murdering them in their hundreds of thousands, men, women, and children ... at a place called ... Auschwitz".

"That's appalling ..."

Max saw Claire's hand come to rest protectively across the gentle swell of her belly which made the fact that they were expecting a child of their own seem all the more real.

"I may be many things, Claire, but I'm not naïve. Even so, I never thought, not for an instant, that there could be so much evil in the world".

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, early evening, 4th July 1942.**

"And so there you have it," finished Robert quietly.

From where she was seated, Saiorse watched her husband's reflection in the mirror of her dressing table as she completed her own preparations for tonight's celebration commemorating American Independence Day. Sitting on the edge of their bed, Robert at last fell silent. Sensing his distress, Saiorse realised that she ought to say something.

"I'm so very sorry," she said softly. "I'm sorry too, for ever doubting you too". Saiorse wished now with all her heart that she had not confided in her Aunt Mary, as she still thought of her mother-in-law, as to her suspicions as to the extent of Robert's involvement with his very own Joan of Arc across the Channel over there in France. Even so, had Aunt Mary not taxed her about what it was that was troubling her in the first place, Saiorse thought it was very unlikely, if at all, that she would have volunteered in the first place the information which then she had done. Not of course that she had accused Robert of infidelity; far from it. No, nothing like that at all. Indeed, all Saiorse had said was that, in telling her of the time he had spent on the run over there in France, Robert had spoken at length about Marie, and with obvious affection. After all, Aunt Mary was not someone to whom the vouchsafing of confidences of any kind came easily; let alone something such as this. And yet, for all this, even now, Saiorse had the distinct feeling that Robert had still not told her everything.

Robert nodded curtly, then rose slowly to his feet.

From the dressing table bed, Saiorse continued to watch her husband as, braces dangling, Robert wandered across the bedroom in his stocking feet, over as far as the window, where, with his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, he now stood in silence, staring out across the deserted park, over towards the village and the spire of the parish church, both bathed in the afterglow of early evening light.

Could a man not be in love with two women? Marie herself had had no difficulty in accepting the idea that a women could love two men. After all, She had told him about Pierre, who she had met in Tours, just after the Fall of France, and, perhaps, if only because he was standing here, beside the open window, Robert found himself once more thinking back to that attic room in distant Marseille on the Canebiere, overlooking the port with its massive cast iron transporter bridge.

* * *

 _"You English have this ridiculous idea that one should marry for love," Marie had told him but a day or so before they had parted._

 _"Why, ridiculous?" he asked, standing over by the window._

 _"Here in France, a husband is often merely for convenience. A lover is for ..." Marie paused and then laughed. A merry, tinkling sound, like the jingle of coins._

 _"That's not the way it is in England. And because I'm married, because I have a wife_ ... Robert thought it better not to say that Saiorse was expecting a child ... _it makes everything so much more difficult"._

 _"Why should it? What does it matter that you have a wife? I don't mind"._

 _"It matters!"_  
 _Marie had laughed again but seeing how hurt Robert looked, she had relented, fell silent for a moment._

 _Robert shook his head._

 _"Can't you understand that I love my ..." he began. Then seeing Marie lying there on the bed, as his erection hardened, so his resolve began to falter._

 _Marie saw the effect she was having upon him._

 _ **"**_ _Chéri, come back to bed," she pleaded._

 _He did as she had asked and moment later was lying beside her on the bed,_

 _"So, mon c_ _héri,_ _marry for respectability and seek your love elsewhere," she said huskily, before reaching deftly between his legs and guiding him in._

* * *

Robert found himself wondering if Saiorse would have been quite as understanding if he had told her … the whole truth. Somehow, he doubted that she would. After all, in his telling of what he had just recounted to her, he had omitted one salient point: what had occurred shortly before Marie and the others had been caught trying to sabotage the newly built German U Boat pens in St. Nazaire, from where, two years earlier, Friedrich, Edith, and their two boys had escaped France on board the RMS Lancastria. Handed over to the Gestapo, Marie and her accomplices had been tortured and then shot. A matter of weeks earlier she had given birth to a little girl: his child, named Marianne, or so Marie's brother Captain George Perreault, had informed him, who was now presently being cared for by her maternal grandparents in Tulle down in the Limousin.

Oddly enough, thought Robert, it had been Mama who had been more difficult to convince, that nothing improper had occurred between himself and Marie. Quite why she would have thought that in the first place, had remained a mystery. Unless of course she knew him better than he knew himself which, with Mama being Mama, was entirely possible. Either that or else perhaps Saiorse had let something slip in one of her, albeit infrequent, chats with her mother-in-law.

* * *

From their unrivalled vantage point overlooking the hall, decorated and made festive with bunting, along with two enormous flags, one British and one American, both hanging from the bannister rail in the upper gallery, just before they descended the main staircase, smartly dressed as befitted them both as the earl and countess of Grantham and as hosts for this evening's festivities here at Downton, Matthew and Mary stood watching as their guests now began to arrive.

 _Yankees — in this house?_

Definitely.

 _We saw the smoke from Twelve Oaks, across the river, before they came._

Well, not exactly, but Yankees all the same. Arriving here at Downton, and not on horseback, but in their jeeps and in their lorries, along with a motor coach which had brought the band, all in a noxious cloud of petrol fumes, cigarette smoke, and cheap cologne, accompanied by a bevy of young girls who, both in their attire and with their heavily made up faces, put Mary instantly in mind of the women from Belle Watling's establishment in Atlanta.

Matthew smiled and now offered Mary his arm.

"Shall we? Cheer up, darling, it could be worse".

Mary forced a smile. Somehow, she doubted the truth of her husband's words. She only wished that she had been brave enough to do what Gerald O'Hara had done at Tara; made a stand. Met the Yankees on the front steps of the abbey and denied them all entry. Not of course that it did Gerald any good in the long run. Nor, she supposed would it have done her any favours either. Well, thought Mary, she ought to be grateful for small mercies. They didn't have any turkeys and all the pigs were safely shut up in their sties down at Home Farm.

Just as the notes from _PEnnsylvania 6-5000_ began warbling their way across the hall from the ballroom, on the very last step of the main staircase, Matthew and Mary paused, confronted by a group of smiling, fresh faced young American airmen in service dress and rubber-soled brown shoes.

"Swell place you got here, ma'am," said one.

"Hey guys, where's the beer?" asked another, chewing gum.

"Welcome to Downton Abbey," said Mary and between gritted teeth.

* * *

With the beat of _Chattanooga Choo Choo_ pulsating throughout the ground floor rooms of the house, leaving Robert talking to one of his RAF chums, going in search of somewhere quieter to sit and think, Saiorse found herself beside the door of the Gun Room. Little used these days, it was, and for obvious reasons, always kept locked but tonight the door stood ajar. Mystified, pushing open the door with her toe, Saiorse slipped inside, to find the room deep in shadow.

"Is there someone in here?" she asked. "If so, this room is out-of-bounds, for sure".

At the sound of her words, on the far side of the room, over by the fireplace, a man's figure straightened up from beside one of the gun cabinets.

"Pardon me, ma'am, I ..." The man, wearing the uniform of the USAAF, now strode briskly over to where Saiorse was standing. On reaching her, he smiled broadly and held out his hand.

"Lieutenant James A. Curtis. My apologies ma'am. You see, I was lookin' for somewhere a bit quieter". He nodded his head towards the door. "You know, back home, in Indiana, my Pa, he's a gunsmith. He makes these kinda things. Why, I know he'd give his eyeteeth to see some of what you have in here!"

Taking his proffered hand, Saiorse smiled.

"Saiorse Crawley. There's no harm done, lieutenant, but as I said a moment ago, my father-in-law, the earl of Grantham, insists that this room is kept locked. There are children in the house and ..."

* * *

She broke away from him.

"James, I'm married".

"What does that matter?"  
"It matters".

Had she but known it, Saiorse had used the very same argument to James, as Robert had to Marie.

* * *

 **Cathedral Tea Rooms, Ripon, Yorkshire, 30th July 1942.**

With this being Market Day, not surprisingly, the little tea shop here off Fishergate was very crowded; although this in itself helped to afford the both of them an unexpected degree of anonymity. When at last she arrived, fresh faced, and some fifteen minutes late, to begin with, he didn't see her but then, catching sight of her as she made her way over to where he was sitting quietly in the alcove, he rose to his feet and smiled.

"I wasn't at all sure you'd come".

"Nor I. And, rather more to the point, I'm not at all sure what I'm doing here," said Saiorse softly.

James smiled.

"I think we both know that isn't true".

* * *

 **Market Square, Ripon, that same afternoon.**

" ... that is, if you don't mind amusing yourself for a while, looking around the market. I've a few purchases of my own to make".

"Yes, Aunt Mary. Of course". David nodded his head.

"Well, here's a florin. Now, don't be like Robert and Simon were when they were your age and spend it all at once!" Mary smiled.

" No, Aunt Mary, I won't. Thanks ever so much!" David grinned.

"So, meet me over there, in front of the obelisk at four o'clock. We can then catch the four thirty train together back to Downton".

Leaving David to wander around the market, Mary herself set off up Fishergate.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey Estate, Yorkshire, September 1942.**

From where he was sitting, contemplating his future, thinking wistfully of Tristan who was in the army out in Egypt, Simon watched as the red squirrel scampered up the trunk of a nearby oak tree while from somewhere above a single leaf pirouetted, spiralled its way downwards to the ground and to where countless of its fellows lay already, banked deeply against the moss-grown log. When, a matter of moments later, the man appeared, quietly, stealthy as a cat, as if from nowhere, out of the mist, Simon was still sitting on the self same log breathing in the scents of an early English autumn: the smell of damp earth, leaf mould, rotting windfalls, and smoke from a nearby bonfire.

At the very last minute, some sixth sense alerted Simon to the fact that he was no longer alone. Turning, he saw, coming towards him along the track that led here to the clearing, a young man with rolled up shirt sleeves, dressed in waistcoat and corduroy trousers, and leading by its halter one of the plough horses from Windrush Farm.

* * *

Side by side they sat, talking companionably together, and for a very long while, as if they had known each other for years, instead of only just having met. Some time later, with the shadows here in the sunlit copse at last beginning to lengthen, finally, they said their goodbyes.

"Here, you'd best have this back," said Simon, slipping Alec's jacket from round his shoulders, which the other had lent it him when, earlier, on account of the lingering effects of the malaria, Simon had begin to shiver uncontrollably.

"No matter. What was it that someone once said? Your need is greater than mine?" Alec smiled. "Keep it until tomorrow. After all, I've got to bring the other horse this way over to the smithy. About three".

"I'll be here," said Simon.

"Well, then. See you tomorrow".

Simon nodded, turned, and set off across the clearing.

Alec stood and watched him disappear off into the trees before he himself resumed his interrupted journey towards the distant farm. Found himself wondering if the idea that one day you might meet someone with whom you could happily spend your whole life was not such a fanciful notion after all. Of course, it was a shame about the limp but perhaps, as Simon had said, in time his knee would recover.

* * *

 **Sunda Strait, between Sumatra and Java, Dutch East Indies, 14th February 1942.**

Along with Joe and Doug, and indeed many hundreds of others, Simon and David quitted Oosthaven at dusk, bound for Batavia, on board a rust bucket of a wheezing Dutch steamer belonging to the Koninklijke Paketvaart-Maatschappij. Their leaving of Sumatra was very much a repeat of the circumstances in which they had left Singapore. The quayside here at Oosthaven was just as filthy, again littered with all manner of abandoned vehicles, both civilian and military, the port and allied shipping under attack from the air by the Japanese, and with clouds of choking black smoke, from the burning rubber plantations up country, as well as from the blazing oil tanks and harbour installations, darkening the sky, and the ship itself, crowded with refugees. Given the fact that the steamer had but four lifeboats and no rafts or lifejackets, Simon thought it probable that everyone on board ship, himself included, was praying that they didn't come under attack. If so, their prayers went unanswered.

They had been at sea for little more than an hour when the cry went up once again that enemy planes had been sighted. Sure enough, but a matter of minutes later there came the by now all too familiar whine as two Aichi bombers swept in low out of the setting sun. While none of the bombs dropped actually hit the ship, landing instead in the sea athwart the steamer and, in the process, sending up huge torrents of filthy water, at the same time the Japanese pilots raked the crowded decks with machine gun fire, the bullets ripping into those packed together like sardines out on the crowded decks, men, women, and children, among them David, who was hit in the arm with splinters from the decking.

It was at this point, perhaps mindful of what he had seen happen back there on the beach in Sumatra, that something in Simon snapped. For, as the two aircraft screamed in for a second time, seeing the carnage which had been wrought on the decks of the steamer, and that the two soldiers who had hastily manned a Bren gun in a vain attempt to ward off the enemy aircraft, had been cut to pieces, heedless of his own safety, Simon threw himself down on his belly on the deck behind the unmanned gun on its tripod. At six hundred yards, as the first of the Japanese bombers came in range, Simon opened fire. With bullets splintering the decking, Simon was conscious of a searing pain in his right leg but continued firing at the enemy plane, saw the glass of the cockpit craze, then shatter, and the pilot slump in his seat. As the Aichi spiralled out of control, streaming smoke, before exploding in a ball of flame, the wreckage crashing headlong into the sea, a tremendous cheer went up from those on deck. Seeing the fate which had befallen his compatriot, the other pilot hastily banked away.

Here, in the war torn waters of the Sunda Strait, night fell.

* * *

The rest of the voyage over to Batavia proved uneventful.

Not that Simon remembered much if anything of it at all, as having lost a very great deal of blood, with his injured leg swathed in bandages, dosed heavily with morphine for the pain, he spent most of it drifting in and out of consciousness. When, and in pouring rain, they at last reached Java, Simon found himself stretchered off the steamer and, along with David, who refused to be parted from him, was taken straight to hospital. There, thanks to the skill of the Dutch surgeon, who operated on him, Simon kept his right leg, although he was told that it was unlikely he would ever regain full use of it.

Then, some ten days later, with the Japanese now threatening Java, both Simon and David, as well as Joe and Doug, all found themselves on yet another refugee train, heading to somewhere David said he had heard tell was called "Jillyjap", and which turned out to be soldiers' slang for Cilapac on the south coast of the island. The train was just as crowded as that which had brought them from Palembang to Oosthaven over on Sumatra, the carriages all unlit, with hard wooden seats, and with everyone packed in as before, but at least this time they had seats, with Simon lying on a stretcher on the floor of the compartment. And, before the train left the railway station here in Batavia, a Dutch army truck brought along food and drink for all those on board.

It was at Jillyjap that Simon and David had to make their sad goodbyes to both Joe and Doug who, along with many of their fellow countrymen were bound for Australia, all four of them promising to look each other up when the war was over. Thereafter, Simon and David sailed for Ceylon; another hazardous journey, and which took in all over a week to complete, their ship zigzagging its way across the wide expanse of the Indian Ocean, so as to avoid both mines and Japanese submarines, before at last they reached Colombo and safety.

For Simon, some six weeks in a military hospital here in Ceylon now ensued, with David coming in to see him each and every day. At the end of this period during which Simon slowly regained his strength, while still suffering from attacks of malaria and the effects of a bout of dysentery, owing to the injury sustained to his right leg, Lance Corporal Crawley was informed firstly that he was being invalided out of the army and sent home to England and that secondly, and to his complete and utter amazement that, on account of the undoubted heroism he had displayed in the Sunda Strait, he was to be awarded the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal.

* * *

 **Curral das Freiras,** **Madeira, late October 1942.**

Not unsurprisingly, since he was cast in the very mould of his father, Danny Branson resented spending any more time than was absolutely necessary away from both his wife and their three children. However, this trip up into the hills, close to Curral das Freiras, had proven unavoidable; had arisen out of sheer necessity, occasioned by a severe tropical storm which had swept across the island of Madeira, from north to south. Bringing in its wake, thunder, lightning, torrential rain, high winds, and also a series of damaging mudslides, the storm had caused flooding, felled trees, swept away houses, and blocked both tracks and roads with debris washed down from the hills. It was one of the mudslides which had brought Danny up here on horseback the previous day, to begin overseeing repairs to the centuries old levada that brought the Blantyre Estate much of its water, the levada now breached in several places by the ferocity of the storm, which had washed away not only the water channel but several of its culverts and sluices.

Here in the mountains, where the lowering clouds still hung low and a skein of damp grey mist shrouded the trees, where the few houses that there were clung like limpets to the steep sides of the valley, it was a sodden world of dripping leaves, of ferns, of mosses, of palm fronds, of bananas, and of sugar cane. Having dismounted and tethered his horse to the shattered stump of a tree, Danny stood and looked about him. Behind, there was the waterfall, which, having ridden this way before, Danny knew at this time of the year, was often reduced to little more than a trickle. Now the water thundered over the lip of the cliff above him in one continuous roar, a constant, gushing, muddy torrent, cascading over the shattered remnants of the levada and the stone terracing which had once supported it, before plunging down into the valley far below. Close at hand a dog barked and a cockerel crowed while from somewhere, much further down the valley, there came the tolling of a church bell. Danny sighed resignedly. From what he had seen so far up here, it was clear that the damage was much worse than he expected and would take several days to repair.

* * *

 **Funchal, Madeira, later that same afternoon.**

Down by the harbour, this afternoon made gay by the presence of a flotilla of brightly painted fishing boats riding gently at anchor, with the sound of the Atlantic waves crashing against the far side of the breakwater clearly audible, the shaded galleries of the recently built market were redolent with all manner of aromas: the smell of freshly baked bread, the salty tang of fish, the sweetness of freshly picked fruit, and the myriad scents of flowers cut that very same morning. At length, regretfully having had to leave the pleasant coolness of the market, encumbered by her various purchases, holding little Daniel tightly by the hand, when Carmen stepped out into the street, the bronze heat of the day hit her with all the force of a fiery furnace. Seeking whatever little shade there was to be had by keeping as close as possible to the walls of the houses and shops lining the narrow streets, they threaded their way slowly back through the town towards the railway station in the Rua do Pombal for the steep ride on the little rack railway, all the way up to Terreiro da Luta with its statue of the Holy Virgin, lying just above Monte.

* * *

 **Quinta das palmeiras, Monte, Madeira, later that same day.**

After they got off the train, Carmen and Daniel had stopped briefly in the shade of some palm trees where they stood and watched a group of young men and women, who in a swirl of colours of patterned waistcoats and striped skirts, were dancing, clapping and stamping their feet, all to the beat of pipe, tambourine, and drum. Now back here at the house, Carmen found her two youngest, along with Carlota, sitting outside in the courtyard beneath the jacaranda tree. While the girl disappeared inside the house to begin preparing the sweet potatoes and yams for their evening meal, taking the three boys with her, barefoot, Carmen went out into the garden down below the house. Here, seated on a bench in the shade beneath an over arching canopy of bougainvillea, with Rober sleeping in her arms, she watched as Daniel and Tomás played contentedly on the grass. The air smelt heavenly, rich with the scent of all manner of flowers, of wild lavender, of fennel, of pale blue hydrangeas, and of white Lily of the Nile, mixed with the fragrance of leaves and of loam. Married to a man she adored, with three delightful young boys, happy and contented with her lot, the horrors of the civil war in Spain an increasingly distant memory, Carmen found herself wondering, truly, if life could ever be any better than this.

* * *

Across the valley, close to where during the storm a bolt of lightning had struck the earth, the blasted, broken remnants of the pine tree still smouldered. All that was needed to fan the nascent embers into life was but the merest whisper of wind. Now, while far below, Funchal basked drowsily in the afternoon heat, here up in the pine clad hills above Monte, a faint breeze arose. Very soon the fiery embers began to flicker and at length burst into a burning spray of flame, almost as if the fire had sprung from the very bowels of the earth. In no time at all, the pine itself was ablaze; the fire driven on by the rising wind with the crackling tongues of flame soon setting light to the other trees close at hand, and before long a dense pall of smoke shrouded the hillside.

On the other side of the valley, behind the house, despite the recent rain, the forest was still tinder dry; indeed, had been so for weeks.

 **Author's Note:**

Margaret Lockwood (1916-1990) was an English actress and a film star of both the 1930s and 1940s.

Like most of the grand hotels up in London, including both the Carleton and the Langham, the Savoy was bombed during the Blitz. But unlike the others, the Savoy never closed. Woolton pie, made of diced vegetables, was created by its Maitre Chef de Cuisine, Francis Latry, who instructed the Savoy's waiters to tell those dining there that it was steak and chips! The dish was named after Frederick Marquis, 1st Earl of Woolton (1883–1964), who popularised the recipe after he became Minister of Food in 1940.

Claridge's - in Mayfair, a luxurious hotel and which has long-standing connections to British royalty.

The Ritz - in Piccadilly, one of the world's most prestigious hotels. During the Second World War many exiled European royals took up residence here.

The poem, _The Old Vicarage, Grantchester_ , written by the First World War poet, Rupert Brooke (1887-1915) ends with the lines:-

 _Stands the Church clock at ten to three?_

 _And is there honey still for tea?_

The Baedeker raid on York took place on 29th April 1942.

Florin - British two shilling coin in circulation 1849-1967.

At this time, Koninklijke Paketvaart-Maatschappij or KPM was the pre-eminent shipping company of the Dutch East Indies.

Batavia, now Jakarta, capital of Indonesia.

In the Far East, between October 1942 and the beginning of January 1943, owing principally to a grave shortage of drugs to combat the disease (Java produced 90% of the world's quinine) the British Army reported 12,240 casualties occasioned by malaria.

 _Yankees - in this house_ ... - Gone With The Wind, Chapter 24.

The galleried market in Funchal opened in 1939 and is still there today; not so the cog railway which closed down in 1943.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty One

Silent Night

 **Valley Of The Kings, Egypt, Christmas Eve, 1922.**

It was almost dark, but westwards, across the Nile, a faint haze of yellow light yet lingered over distant Cairo, casting a gleam of gold upon the waters of the river. Behind her the sounds of the camp faded into silence and, as they did so, above her head she heard the leathery palm fronds rustle in the breeze while a sudden chill brushed her skin. Not that for a moment Edith believed in all that nonsense about the pharaoh's curse which, even now, was being reported widely in lurid detail in many of the newspapers both here in Cairo and in others even further afield.

Some three years ago, back in June 1919, over in Dublin, at the Shelbourne Hotel, both Tom and Sybil had told her that following the dictates of the heart often made no sense at all, except to those directly involved. Edith was no fool and she knew perfectly well where this evening's assignation might end. And on that score, she had no regrets. None at all. Yet, for all that, she sensed that she was setting in train something for which, one day, a very high price would have to be paid.

"So then, will you teach me?" she asked, standing there in the pale moonlight, beside the open flap of his tent.

Friedrich nodded his head; now gently laid aside the guitar on the camp bed.

"Wenn Sie es wünschen. If you wish it". He inclined his head and smiled. "Aber vorher ..." he began.

"What?" Edith asked softly.

Friedrich shook his head.

Even if she didn't, he himself knew that the time for talking was over. That being so, he rose from the bed, closed the short distance that separated them, and drew her into his arms.

A moment later and the light in the tent went out.

* * *

 **Cathedral Tea Rooms, Ripon, Yorkshire, England, 30th July 1942.**

"A pot of tea for two and a plate of fancies, is it?"  
Saiorse nodded her head at the pert girl who, both in her manner and in the knowing smile she gave Saiorse, more resembled a maid in a French farce than a waitress in an English teashop. But that was the way of things these days, or so Aunt Mary kept saying.

"Thank you".

After the girl had gone, and when he was certain she was out of ear shot, James smiled.

"A plate of what?" He arched an inquisitive eyebrow.  
"Fancies. Cakes. Or these days, what passes for them".

James nodded.

"I've got us a room," he said, the remark itself offered to her as if it was commonplace; an everyday occurrence. Reaching across the table, he made to clasp her hand. Saiorse shook her head; placed her hands out of reach, her fingers laced demurely together in her lap.

"Not here. Someone might see," she said in a hushed whisper, glancing nervously about her.

"And, what if they do? You know you want this just as much as I do".

"You seem very sure of yourself!" observed Saiorse tartly.

"I am," he said and grinned. And, in spite of what she had just said, Saiorse found herself returning his smile.

"What if you're wrong?"  
"I'm not. Why else would you be here?"

"A room? Whereabouts?" she asked inquisitively.

"Just along the street from here. The Unicorn Hotel. In the name of Smith".

"Smith?" Saiorse smothered a laugh. "Honestly, James, couldn't you have chosen something a little more original than that?"

James chuckled.  
"I suppose I could have," he drawled. "Only, it seemed kinda right".

He grinned again.

* * *

 **Fishergate, Ripon, that same afternoon.**

Mary was not at all pleased.

Here in Ripon, as she set off to meet up as arranged with David over by the obelisk, this being Market Day, she found that the narrow streets were much more crowded than was usually the case. While she might have expected it, what with all the rationing, several of the purchases she herself had wanted to make proved impossible to accomplish. Despite the actress Deborah Kerr modelling Utility clothes in _Picture Post_ , in order to promote the government endorsed range of clothing, Mary was not at all sure that she liked the designs. This apart, she did not wish to appear dressed identically to Mrs. Goodwin, the wife of the local butcher back in Downton. That would never do.

And, as for darling Matthew, he always wore double breasted suits with turn ups, both of which were now unobtainable, or so she had just been told. To begin with, the young assistant in the gentlemen's outfitters - to Mary he looked as though he was only just out of school - had been obliging enough; suggesting that her husband might consider the purchase of trousers which were too long for him and then have them taken up. Apparently, this was the way that gentlemen who wanted turn ups were getting around the particular restriction. Of course, the trousers could be taken up here in the back of the shop, but at a cost. Unless of course ... madam herself cared to undertake the necessary alterations. At that Mary bristled; she was not, she informed him, Coco Chanel, and promptly swept imperiously out of the shop.

Doubtless, Matthew would have something caustic to say about the lack of suitable trousers, let alone the several pairs of socks she had managed to procure for him, each neatly stamped with _CC41,_ to indicate that they conformed to the requirements of Utility clothing. No wonder Edith was urging her to follow the exhortations of the posters to _Make Do And Mend_ , and so take up darning in order to prolong the life of clothes from before the war when quality and style were taken for granted. Thus far, Mary had avoided having to do so, but, despite her remark to the impertinent young shop assistant about her not being Coco Chanel, if the shortages of clothing got any worse, she might jolly well have to. All but lost in thought, on went Mary, negotiating her way along the crowded, thronging pavements, midst the deafening noise of the market: the strident cries and the raucous shouts of the traders, mixed with the bleating of sheep, the shrill squealing of pigs, and the plaintive lowing of cattle. Until, that was …

It was pheasant feathers that did it.

With her mind still very much set on clothes, or indeed rather the lack of them, it was as Mary reached the other side of the Market Square that, ahead of her, moving through the press of the market crowds, among the covered stalls, she saw what appeared to be, at least to her, a familiar brown felt cloche hat stylishly adorned with a pair of pheasant feathers. As far as she could tell, it belonged to a well-dressed young woman who was on the arm of an American serviceman. While the couple were still some way off and had their backs to her, it was as they reached the front door to the Unicorn Hotel that they eventually came into profile. At which point, Mary's heart skipped a beat. No, surely not ... But before she could make certain, a horse drawn dray clattered past along Queen Street, thus barring her path. And, by the time the dray had gone on its way down Kirkgate, the couple were no longer to be seen.

"Aunt Mary!" Turning, she saw David now hailing her from beside the obelisk in the middle of the Market Square.

* * *

 **Unicorn Hotel, Ripon, that same afternoon.**

As James slipped off his undershorts and clambered in beside her, the double bed creaked under his weight and the springs squealed their protest while, from outside, the myriad sounds of the market drifted up to the both of them from the busy square down below.

"Don't worry, I took the precaution of bringing a snakeskin with me".

"A what?"

James arched a brow.

"You know; a ..." Grinning, he produced the packet for Saiorse's inspection.

"Well, I've never heard it called that before for sure. My brother, Danny, always calls them johnnies. Not that he ever seems to make much use of them!"

James lofted a brow.  
"Why's that?"  
"He's three children already and he's only been married a couple of years".

James smiled.

"Well," he drawled, cupping her breast, "that's what they're called where I come from in Madison. As I told when we first met, that's in Indiana".

She felt his erection brush against her thigh.

"What's it like?" asked Saiorse, curious to know more about where it was James was from.

"It's a kinda one horse town. Course, there's the railroad depot, the Lanier Mansion, the Jefferson County Gaol, not that I know it personally you understand. Then there's ...

Twenty years later, a continent away from Cairo and the Valley of the Kings, here in a shabby hotel bedroom in a market town in the North Riding of Yorkshire, in England, once again, as no doubt it was for men and women in countless other places all around the globe, the time for talking was over.

And in confirmation of this being so, but a moment later James had captured Saiorse's mouth with his own.

* * *

 **Downton Railway Station later** **that same afternoon.**

Had it not been for the fact that Mary always insisted on travelling First Class, it was entirely possible that there would have been an unforeseen and extremely unpleasant encounter on the journey back to Downton. As it was, travelling Third Class, seated at the rear of the short train, Saiorse had the good fortune to catch sight both of her aunt and young David getting out of a First Class compartment at the railway station in Downton, and so avoid being seen. By the simple expedient of at first hanging back out of sight of the pair of them and then, despite her condition, by a brisk walk through the maze of alleys and passages which traversed the village, just as her aunt and David drew level with the Grantham Arms, Saiorse managed to contrive it that when, as was inevitable, they all did meet up, she herself appeared to have just come out of Blacks the chemists on the High Street.

"Good Lord! Saiorse, darling! Where on earth did you spring from?"

"Aunt Mary! Hello, David. From Blacks. I've just been down into the village".

"Just the village?" echoed Mary. "No where else?"

"Where else would I go, in my condition?" asked Saiorse archly and with the most innocent of smiles; at the same time, she adjusted her hat. That it was the brown felt cloche hat with the pheasant feathers, did not go unnoticed by her aunt.

"What for?"

"Malt syrup. For the twins".

Mary eyed Saiorse's round wicker shopping basket with undisguised interest. It was empty. Following the direction of her aunt's eyes, Saiorse realised that some further explanation was now in order.

"Blacks were quite out of malt syrup," she said airily.

"You could have come with us into Ripon today and purchased some there. Or asked me to fetch it for you," observed Mary tartly, as the three of them continued walking back along the High Street.

"Why? Is that where the both of you have just been?"  
"Indeed. If you remember, I mentioned it last night, at dinner".

"Oh, yes, of course. I'd forgotten for sure". Saiorse smiled. "I suppose I could have. Come with you. Into Ripon. Wasn't it awfully crowded?"

"How do you know it was crowded?"  
"I don't. But isn't today Market Day?"  
"Yes, it is. How very clever of you to remember that".

Saiorse smiled again.

"Yes, it was, wasn't it? Perhaps I'll take a trip in there myself next week. Into Ripon that is".

"Well, if you do, let me know when it is you're planning on going, and I'll accompany you," said Mary.

"Oh, I wouldn't want to put you to any bother, Aunt Mary, for sure". Saiorse forced a smile.

"You won't," said Mary tautly. "No bother at all. You can be sure of that. In any case, these days, what with all the riff raff in Ripon, Americans and so forth, I wouldn't want you to come to any harm". She paused; deliberately so. "After all, one never knows just who you might run into".

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, that same afternoon.**

Back at the abbey, having imparted to Matthew in the Library the bad news about his preferred cut of suits and produced for his equally disgruntled inspection his six pairs of new socks all neatly emblazoned with their _CC41_ emblem, now seated in the Drawing Room, Mary rang the bell. When Henry, or more correctly Pickard, duly appeared, she asked him if he would kindly telephone down to Blacks in the village and enquire whether they had any malt syrup; adding by way of explanation that Miss Saiorse had need of some for the twins.

A short while later, Henry returned to the Drawing Room to announce that he had done as Her Ladyship had requested. If convenient, Mr. Black would send his boy up with a couple of bottles of malt syrup later this very afternoon.

Mary nodded.

"Thank you, Pickard but that won't now be necessary. I must apologise for troubling you over such a trifling matter. Miss Saiorse has just informed me that we already have some".

"No trouble at all, Your Ladyship", said Henry who now gravely bowed his head and discretely withdrew himself from her presence, leaving Mary to ponder what on earth she should do next.

* * *

 **Crawley House, Downton, September 1942.**

"And just why do you want to know about babies?" asked Edith who, while, in no sense as straight laced as Mary had been in refusing to discuss such issues with her children, was not as comfortable as Tom and Sybil had been in explaining the facts of life to their own offspring; knowing too that, as children, both Danny and Saiorse had been quite precocious in their knowledge of such matters. Goodness, how times had changed! Never for one moment could Edith imagine herself ever having asked either dearest Mama or darling Papa about such things. Why, in their day, it simply wasn't done. Edith permitted herself the briefest of smiles. In the present circumstances, it seemed that darling Max had found things out for himself. Unless, of course, unbeknown to her, at some point in the past, Friedrich had had a chat with him, man to man which, given Friedrich having been a pilot during the last war, was, she supposed, entirely possible.

"Because … because Alfie Simmonds told me that kissing leads to babies. And … and Cathy Ellis kissed me today … behind the bicycle shed at school. I didn't want to kiss her, Mama, but she made me do it".

"Did she?" Edith did her best not to laugh and to suppress even the hint of a smile.

"And I know Max kisses Claire a lot. And she's having a baby".

"Does he now?" Edith raised an enquiring brow.

Kurt nodded his head promptly.

"Yes, Mama, he does. I saw them kissing, not once but several times ... down there under the trees ... when they were last here". Kurt pointed towards the orchard at the bottom of the garden. "But Ike and I want to go hunting for conkers over in Downton Woods on Saturday and I don't want to have to stay at home and look after a baby," finished the little boy breathlessly. From the expression on Kurt's face, it was obvious that he was in deadly earnest.

Edith pulled him onto her lap and smothered him with kisses.

"Darling, you musn't worry. Babies don't come about just because of kissing".

Kurt nodded.

"Oh ..."

"Well then, does that tell you what you needed to know?"

When Kurt nodded his head, inwardly Edith breathed a sigh of relief. But, just when she thought to set the matter safely aside, Kurt returned to the fray.

"Max told me Claire was having his baby. Does that mean he had it first and then he gave it to her?"

Edith nodded.

"Something like that. Yes".

"So, just how **do** they come about?" persisted Kurt.

* * *

That innocent kiss behind the bicycle shed was to have unforeseen consequences and lead to something which no-one, not least of all young Kurt, could ever have imagined.

* * *

 **Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, Ireland, early November 1942.**

"All the same, I'd have expected a letter from them by now ..." began Sybil. Seated on a Windsor chair in the warm kitchen at the back of the house, she was busily engaged in feeding little Ailis.

"Doesn't it hurt?" asked Dermot who, neat in his school uniform and waiting for Declan to call, fascinated by what Ma was doing, was sitting beside her, closely observing both his mother and baby sister while the little girl was fed.

"No, darling. Not at all!" Sybil laughed, in the process startling the baby, and causing Aliis to open wide her bright blue eyes.

"And, when I was little, yous fed me like that too, Ma?"

At this precise moment, Tom himself was standing in front of the small mirror on the wall by the door leading into the hallway, adjusting his tie. Hearing Dermot's question, his father half turned and smiled.

"When yous were all born, Ma gave each of yous a praitie and told yous to feed yourself for sure!" quipped Tom merrily.

"Don't pay any attention to what your Da says. Of course I fed you. Just like I did your two brothers and your sister".

At the mention of his siblings, Dermot's eyes lighted on the collection of framed photographs which stood on the dresser. There were pictures of the whole family: of Da, of Ma, of Dermot himself, of his sisters and of his brothers, among them several of young Bobby. Dermot missed him so very much; knew his parents did so too, and he could always tell when it was they had just returned from visiting Bobby's grave in the cemetery, something which they did each and every week.

Now satisfied with his tie, Tom turned back to them all.

"Darlin', yous know how long it takes for a letter from Madeira to reach us here in Ireland. Why, what with bad weather, and the war, the last one we sent took nearly a month to reach Funchal. And from what Danny told us last Christmas, Blantyre knows he's got a good man there and makes full use of him. As for Carmen, why she's the three boys to look after. Trust me, it's nothing more than that". He glanced hurriedly at the clock on the mantelpiece above the range which, on account of the continuing shortage of coal here in Ireland, he had Mr. Considine, a local builder from just down the road in Monkstown, bring back into use before the onset of winter. "Jaysus, is that the time for sure? If I don't leave now, I'll miss the eight thirty. If it's running that is".

"And if it isn't, there'll be another one along. So, no running to the station. You know what Dr. Trevelyan said".  
Tom pulled a face and sniffed derisorily.

"Hm! And what does he know?"  
"In matters medical, a damn' sight more than you do!"

"Anyway, I told yous. I'm feeling fine for sure".

" **Tom**!" Sybil shot him a warning, reproachful look. "And have you got your pills?"

"All right! All right! Yes! I'll be back on the six o'clock, in time for supper".

Then, having kissed Sybil, Ailis, and a somewhat reluctant Dermot - _give over Da! -_ Tom was away, whistling happily, clattering down the steps, and, once he was out of sight of the house, off at a brisk step along the pavement, bound for the station at the end of the street.

A short while later, with Declan having called for Dermot and the two boys having set off for school, now upstairs, Sybil settled Ailis down in her cot for her morning nap. Leaving the bedroom door ajar, having come back down to the kitchen, she made herself another pot of tea and, while it brewed, seated herself beside the warm range.

She knew what Tom had said made sense, but for all that, Sybil could not help thinking that, away in far distant Madeira, something was wrong; terribly wrong.

* * *

 **Quinta das palmeiras, Monte, Madeira, October 1942.**

When, two days later, back from overseeing repairs to the levada, Danny rode in through the archway of the quinta, with the smell of burning still hanging heavy in the air, he was confronted by a scene of absolute devastation. The roof had gone and the house itself was little more than a smoke blackened shell, mute testimony to the intensity of the fire which had all but consumed it.

On seeing Carlota with Rober in her arms and with Daniel and Tomás sitting beside her on the flight of steps which had led upstairs to the first floor of the house and now led nowhere, Danny breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God! Vaulting off his horse, he ran lithely up the steps. Hugging the boys to him, he smothered them all in kisses. Then, he turned to Carlota.

"Where's my wife?" he asked.

Carlota shook her head, and then burst into tears.

* * *

 **Downton, Yorkshire, England, November 1942.**

While, on the face of it, the news from North Africa, from El Alamein, in Egypt, was good, an overwhelming victory for the British, at the same time, it had come at a terrible cost in lives, German, Italian, and British, among them Simon's pal, Tristan, and also Luke Ellis, older brother of fourteen year old Sam, both the brothers of young Cathy who had kissed Kurt Schönborn, both of them aged all of nine years old, so passionately behind the bicycle shed down at the Village School.

* * *

 **Popes Quay, Dublin, Ireland, November 1942.**

Standing beside the ship's rail, from the deck of the steamer, Danny caught sight of Da and Ma, she with a baby in her arms, and Dermot standing beside them on the quay.

A short while later, after they had disembarked, with the customary greetings having been made, between them Ma and Dermot took charge of both Daniel and Tomás. For his part, with Rober held fast in his arms, Danny stood beside the motor looking for all the world as if, despite what had happened, somehow, he still expected to see Carmen suddenly appear beside him on the quayside. Da laid a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm so very, very sorry, for sure," he said.

* * *

 **Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, Ireland, 12th December 1942.**

"You must be mad, even to suggest such a thing". Sybil sounded aghast at what it was Tom had just proposed.

"Why ever not?" This from Danny who, with arms folded, was standing, lounging in the kitchen doorway.  
"If you need me to tell you that, then like your Da, you must be away with the fairies!"  
"I t'ink you mean leprechauns," said Tom with a grin.

"After everything that happened down there in Cork? All that apart, you said you wanted never to see that place again!"

"Darlin', I say many things for sure. Besides, that was years ago. You've been on at me to retire. And here in Dublin, why, we simply don't have the space. Not now. Not for us as well as for Danny and the boys".

"You're serious then? About rebuilding Skerries House?"

Tom nodded.

"Yes, darlin', I am".

* * *

 **High Street, Downton, Yorkshire, England, 15th December 1942.**

In the bitter cold, walking back along the High Street, through the gently falling snow, from his meeting with the Trustees of the Cottage Hospital, Matthew was deep in thought. Mulling over in his mind the one, single matter which had generated such a great deal of discussion this afternoon among the Trustees of which he himself, by virtue of being the earl of Grantham, was Chairman. The fact that, once the war was over, what had been proposed for some time now, the creation of a National Health Service for the entire country, was very likely to come into being. Earlier this year, in May, the Medical Planning Commission had recommended this as the way forward with the establishment of a National Health Service with General Practitioners working through "health centres" and with hospitals run by regional administrations. And now, this very month the Beveridge Report had recommended much the same idea. On the face of it, the proposal was eminently laudable and had a very great deal to commend it. The question on everyone's lips was, how on earth was it all to be funded?

Matthew sighed.

These days, all he ever seemed to do was attend meetings, whether or not it was with the trustees of the Cottage Hospital, or with the gentlemen from the National Trust into whose care Downton Abbey, along with its six thousand acre estate, was to pass forever, on the 1st March 1943. After which date, Matthew wondered what on earth he would find to do with his time. He pulled a face and, at the sight of what he now saw, grimaced still further. Slowing his pace, he came finally to a stop beside Friedrich who was down on his knees on the pavement outside Crawley House in the bitter cold and the snow with a brush and a pail of hot water next to him. For the umpteenth time, he was patiently scrubbing off the crude chalk swastikas which, as if by magic, had appeared once more over night, daubed on the brick wall bordering the house, along with two broken window panes, smashed by stones. Then there were the anonymous letters; the hateful words misspelled, crudely cut from out of a newspaper, and then pushed through the letterbox, calling the Schönborns Nazis. Given what all of them had all been through, Edith had been especially upset.

Friedrich looked up.

"I'll have another word with the headmaster," Matthew said.

Friedrich sighed, then nodded.

"As you see fit. Assuming of course that those responsible are children. They don't understand". Sadly, he shook his head and continued with his scrubbing.

Not that Friedrich knew it, but far worse was to come.

* * *

 **Back Lane, Downton, later that same day.**

The narrow, winding, cobbled alley off Back Lane was the shortest way back to Crawley House from the Village School. While it was dark and lonely, especially at this time of the year, when it grew dark early, for someone who had survived the horror of the sinking of the Lancastria, let alone a madcap race against time across France in the aftermath of the German invasion, it held no especial horrors. And so, undaunted, young Kurt continued to made use of it each and every day on his way to and from school.

* * *

Even though he was not quite fourteen, like his older brother Luke, Sam Ellis had been in trouble almost ever since the day he was born; petty larceny and so forth; both of the Ellis boys in and out of the local police court. Having received his call up papers, Luke's conscription into the army had been quite the making of him, although how he would have fared when peace returned, whether or not he would have gone back to his bad habits, was debatable. But with his death at El Alamein, that particular question was now destined never to be answered.

The telegram, informing Sam's parents that their elder son had been killed, had arrived here in Downton but a week or so ago. Earlier today, since old man Ellis was one of his tenants, before his meeting with the trustees of the Cottage Hospital and also his encounter with Friedrich, Matthew had called in at their home to offer his condolences.

Sam Ellis had been much affected by his brother's death; as he had told his pals, Jimmy and Terry, had he been but old enough, he'd have joined up in order to take a crack at fucking jerry himself in order to settle things. _An eye for an eye_ , _Let he who is without sin cast the first stone_ and so forth. Sam had a store of Biblical quotations to hand, drilled into him by old Miss Foster down at Sunday School when he was a nipper. Not that Sam saw any contradiction at all in the fact that the way he lived his life was in contravention of most of them, as events now proved. And talking of stones, it was a couple of well-aimed shots with a catapult on the part of Terry which had smashed the window panes at the front of Crawley House, while the chalk daubed swastikas were the work of both Sam and Jimmy.

* * *

This very afternoon, an infernal mischance meant that, as Kurt was minding his own business, making his way home, wondering what Mrs. Braithwaite had prepared for tea, and taking his usual way route along the narrow alleyway, coming the other way was none other than Sam Ellis. Catching sight of the younger boy ahead of him, he knew that his sister Cathy was much enamoured of the youngster, and that rankled. _Consor ..._ something or other _with the enemy_ was how Luke had termed it when he had been home on what turned out to be his last ever leave. Despite the disparity in their sizes, Sam, who was big for his age and very free with his fists, decided that here was one bloody jerry he could deal with.

* * *

When Kurt did not come home from school as expected, the alarm was quickly raised. Shortly thereafter, he was found slumped in the snow covered alleyway, having clearly been the recipient of a severe beating. Taken straightaway by ambulance down to the Cottage Hospital, while an ashen faced Friedrich and a distraught Edith waited anxiously out in the corridor, Kurt's injuries, a black eye, cut lip, extensive bruising, and a fractured left wrist - the last evidence of the fact that he had done his best to try and defend himself - were dressed and attended to. Kept in over night as a precaution, with his left arm in plaster and in a sling, Kurt was released from hospital late the following morning; not to return to school until well after Christmas was over.

* * *

For their unenviable part in the proceedings, having admitted the same before the local police court, Sam and his two pals were sentenced to be birched. But who it was who had sent the anonymous letters still remained a mystery. That there could be such hate festering here in Downton seemed unbelievable but the notes were proof enough that exist it did.

* * *

 **The Rectory, Downton, Monday, 21st December 1942.**

The blackout regulations, brought into force upon the outbreak of war which, while well intentioned, and with the protection of the public foremost in the minds of those who were responsible for their drafting, had soon been found to be completely unworkable. Even the red glow from cigarettes was banned and it was widely reported that a man who struck a match to look for his false teeth had been fined ten shillings. In due course, common sense prevailed and, at length, the Government permitted certain exemptions appertaining to the displaying of lights during the hours of darkness. So while on the railways window blinds on passenger trains had still to be kept drawn, light-bulbs painted blue, and during air raids all lights had to be extinguished, motor vehicles could now be driven with dipped headlights, so long as the headlamps were suitably masked, while markets and street stalls could be partly lit. So too restaurants and cinemas which were allowed to continue their use of illuminated signs but these also had to be put out when the air raid sirens sounded.

However, here in Downton, the exemption which pleased Reverend Davis no end had been that regarding the lighting of the parish church during Divine Service; as a result of which the annual, candlelit carol service had continued to be held in St. Mary's each and every year ever since the war had begun. Nonetheless, this year another problem manifested itself and in so doing threatened the staging of the whole service.

When, back in the summer of 1941, the German bomber had hit the church spire, before then spiralling out of control and destroying the Dower House, killing all those inside it, including Cora, Dowager Countess of Grantham, the resultant fall of masonry from the tower had damaged the electricity supply to the church. While this had been patched up, the repair to the cable had never been that satisfactory with, on occasions, the lighting both in the nave and the chancel flickering constantly while, on occasions, that in the south aisle simply refused to work at all.

The first indication that there was any kind of a really serious problem occurred yesterday at Evensong, when, just as Reverend Davis climbed into the pulpit to give his sermon, the lights in the church suddenly dimmed, flickered, and then went out altogether. At the same time there came a despairing asthmatic wheeze from the organ, powered by an electrically driven pump and which, in the absence of a functioning electrical supply, was thus rendered utterly useless. Fortunately, the vagaries of the lighting in the church were well known and most of the evening's congregation had taken the precaution of coming prepared for just such an eventuality and brought with them a goodly array of pocket torches.

However, when today, along with members of the parochial church council, the rector and the verger met, at short notice, with the local representative of the Electricity Board, it was to find the cable to the church immediately condemned as unsafe and, with the supply being deemed non essential to the war effort, there being no chance whatsoever of it being replaced before the New Year. While the lighting of the church presented no problem, insofar as there was a goodly supply of candles to hand, without electricity, the organ could not be played.

The Carol Service would have to be cancelled.

And then, when all seemed lost, help came, and from the most unlikely of sources.

* * *

 **Windrush Farm, Christmas Eve, 1942.**

Alec closed the door to the attic bedroom firmly behind him and, for good measure, turned the key in the lock. Now, finally alone, they stood facing each other beside the single unmade bed, while close by a bright fire burned in the small grate.

"I wasn't at all sure that you'd come," he said softly.

"Me neither," said Simon quietly. "Where on earth is everybody?"

Not of course that he needed to ask. After all, Simon knew perfectly well where everyone was. And that included each and every member of his own family to whom, in order to explain his unexpected absence from the Carol Service, he had said that sitting in a cold, hard, narrow pew for upwards of well over an hour would do his injured knee no good whatsoever. So, with this in the forefront of his mind all he was doing now was simply making conversation for the sake of it. He wondered if Alec realised this to be the case and hoped fervently that his voice didn't betray just how nervous he himself was feeling.

"Like I told you, they've gone over to Downton, for the Carol Service, down at the parish church. Then supper afterwards, in the Village Hall. They won't be back here for a couple of hours at least. Perhaps even longer. Why don't you sit down?" With a wave of his hand, Alec indicated one of the threadbare armchairs which stood either side of the cast iron fireplace. "Kettle's on, that is if you fancy a cup of tea ... Or maybe, given it's almost Christmas, you'd prefer something stronger?" Alec nodded to where a bottle of whisky and two unmatching tumblers stood on a small table.

"Whiskey will do just fine".

Alec smiled and proceeded to pour out two generous measures into the glasses. While he did so, glancing round the room, Simon's eyes lighted on the book which lay on top of the bedside table; a copy of James Joyce's _Ulysses_ , which Uncle Tom had given him on his eighteenth birthday and which Simon had lent to Alec in exchange for _The Rainbow_ by D. H. Lawrence.

"I see you've made a start on it then".

"More than a start. I'm about halfway through. And what about you?"

"I've read the first couple of chapters. Out of sight of my parents of course. Much as I did with _Ulysses_. But as my Aunt Sybil said - she's read _The Rainbow_ too - so far, I can't see what all the fuss is about".

Alec smiled.  
"A very astute woman, your Aunt Sybil".  
"Yes, she is. She'd like you, I know she would".

"Well, here's to us then. Cheers!"

* * *

By the flickering light of the fire, the two of them had now stripped to their undershorts, Simon only all too conscious of the still livid, purple scar, etched across the taut skin of his right knee. He shivered but this time it had nothing at all to do with his recurring bouts of malaria which, as time went on had begun to occur less often than before. A moment later and he felt Alec's hands come to rest on his shoulders.

"Are you nervous?"

"No ... Yes," Simon admitted. He hung his head in abject shame.

"Really?"

"Of course," he mumbled, not daring to meet Alec's eyes. "You see, I've never ... What I mean is ... I haven't ever ..."  
"And you think **I** have?" asked Alec, unable to conceal his surprise.

"Haven't you?"  
"No, never. Not that I didn't want ... What I mean is, I've never met anyone I wanted to be with like this ... Until now". At that, Alec thrust down his shorts, stepped out of them, and stood naked.

Simon followed suit; then kicked aside his shorts with his good leg, unsure of quite what it was he should do next. Instead, he stood gazing down at the worn, patterned rug beneath his bare feet.

"Si', will you look at me, please". Reluctantly, Simon did as he was bidden and slowly raised his head, at the same time unable to avoid catching sight of Alec's very obvious arousal and which matched his own.

"There's nothing to be frightened of. It's only love," said Alec softly, and drew Simon forward into his arms.

* * *

After.

Later still.

They lay snuggled together, face to face, in the single bed.

"Si?"  
"Hm?"

"Have you ever wondered if one day you might meet someone with whom you could happily spend the rest of your life?"

* * *

 **Parish Church, Downton, Christmas Eve, December 1942.**

When, all things considered, given what had happened to young Kurt, in an overt show of public solidarity, the Crawleys and the Schönborns arrived together at St. Mary's for the annual Carol Service, it was to find the church lit by both candles and horn lanterns, the interior festively adorned, decorated with evergreen, with fir cones, branches of larch, of yew, and of pine, along with curling tendrils of ivy, and copious sprigs of holly festooned with bright red berries. And, as was usual, taking pride of place, beneath the pulpit, was the Nativity Scene with its array of painted carved wooden figures and animals: Mary, Joseph, the shepherds, a couple of sheep, along with both an ox and an ass. However, since it was only Christmas Eve, as yet, the crib remained empty. Clearly, despite both the exigencies of the war and the absence of electricity, the Sanctuary Guild had decided that it was business as usual. Even so, despite the subdued buzz of conversation, without the organ playing, the church seemed strangely muted.

* * *

While they all sat waiting for the service to begin, in what Simon had predicted correctly enough would be a cold, hard, narrow wooden pew, Matthew found himself to be in a sombre mood. How, in God's Name - if indeed there was a god - and these days he was more disposed to Tom's view that there was not, had it come down to this? That for the second time this century, just twenty five years after the beginning of the Great War, Europe had toppled over the precipice again into yet another war, which was proving just as costly as the first, and this time engulfing far more of the world.

Matthew found himself taking stock; thinking back to Christmases long gone, when the children were still small, when everything seemed so safe and secure, even if in reality it wasn't really ever so. Now, with the children grown, how things had changed. Here at Downton, with Robert and Saiorse married and the parents of twins, with Robert having survived being shot down over the Channel and again over France, then evading capture by the Germans and making his way to Gibraltar and from thence home to England. And Simon, who against all the odds, with David in tow, had come back to them alive from the Far East; being awarded the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal, which however well deserved, was surely its most unlikeliest recipient, his investiture by His Majesty the King due to take place next February. With Rebecca and Emily still too young to be involved in the war, he supposed Mary and he should be thankful for their good fortune.

And yet despite all of this, things seemed not to be quite right between Robert and Saiorse. With Robert expected here at Downton on Boxing Day, if the opportunity arose, Matthew thought he would try and have a quiet word. As for Saiorse, she seemed to be at daggers drawn with Mary, though when he himself had tackled her about it, Mary refused to discuss the matter. Like Simon, Saiorse had cried off attending tonight's Carol Service, citing her advancing pregnancy and had remained behind at the house to look after the twins. And while Simon had come back to them alive, it was doubtful if he would ever regain full use of his injured leg, on top of which the death of his pal Tristan out in Egypt at El Alamein had hit him very hard indeed. No wonder he, too, had stayed up at the abbey. Glancing along the length of the pew, Matthew smiled. Well, along with David, at least the two girls were here, thus ensuring the family was adequately represented at tonight's service.

What then, of dearest Tom, darling Sybil and their children across the sea in distant Dublin? To have lost Bobby the way they did was terrible. But then, thank God, assuming of course that He existed, this year had seen the arrival of little Ailis. Not that one cancelled out the other. But now had come this awful business of Danny. To lose his wife thus, when their lives together had barely begun, leaving three small children motherless, was heartbreaking. Tom had written, saying now was not the time to go into details, but that Danny and his three young boys had returned home to Ireland. That he would write more fully in the New Year.

Then there was the hateful campaign being waged against the Schönborns. And now young Kurt. To be set upon the way he had been. Even if was an unchristian thought, especially here in church, Matthew thought Sam Ellis deserved everything coming to him.

Still, with two babies expected in the New Year, all things being equal, if not for the world, then for the Bransons, the Crawleys, and the Schönborns, surely, 1943 would bring better news.

* * *

More to the point, thought Matthew, after four years of war, and with no end of the conflict in sight, how could everyone here tonight sing about Peace on Earth and Goodwill to Men?

In the absence of the organ, the short answer to that was, they couldn't. Then, quite unexpectedly, Reverend Davis climbed into the pulpit and made a startling announcement.

* * *

As an expectant hush now settled over the congregation, at the other end of the pew, Kurt reached out his good hand.

"Was machst du gerade, Max?"

"Where are you going?" whispered Claire, hugging Kurt to her in a fond embrace. While her young brother-in-law beamed his delight, Max smiled, then squeezed Claire's gloved hand.

"Don't you trust me?" he asked of her softly.

"Of course I do. Implicitly. But I don't see how whatever it is that you're ..."

"You will".

"What on earth ..." began Mary as with the sight of the softly falling snow outside clearly visible through the church windows, by the flickering light of the candles, she now saw Edith carrying a guitar, closely followed by Max, both walk forward, to stand before everyone in the nave. A faint ripple of surprise, not to say disapproval, ran round the congregation. For here it seemed was something which was both new and unusual, and so treated by some with a considerable degree of suspicion, if not downright hostility.

Edith stood and waited patiently for everyone to settle down before speaking both clearly and firmly, addressing what it was she had to say, both to young and old.

"All of you here know who I am and, looking around this church tonight, I see many familiar, friendly faces". Familiar certainly, but by the looks some were giving her ... Nonetheless, undeterred, Edith ploughed on with what it was she was saying. "Some of you know too that my husband is Austrian. Not German. That because of the Nazi annexation of Austria, he and I, along with our two sons, had to leave both our home, and our own country, to go and live in France. And when France fell, we had to come to live in England, here at Downton, where I grew up. And since we've been here, our elder son has married an English girl".

Before continuing Edith now paused. She shot a fond glance firstly at Max standing beside her, then at Friedrich, at Claire, and lastly at young Kurt seated in the pew just in front of her, his face still battered and bruised, and with his left arm in a sling, at the renewed sight of which Edith found herself wondering, could she do this? Then, just as all those years ago, on her wedding day in the English Church in Florence, she felt a hand, no longer small and moist, but firm and strong, steal into her own. Half turning, she saw Max smile, nod his head, silently willing her to continue with what it was she was saying.

"Whatever some of you may think, neither I nor any member of my family is a Nazi. Indeed quite the reverse. We didn't want this war and like you, all we as a family are doing, is trying to survive it. And, one day, God willing, when this terrible war is at last over, then we hope to go home to Austria to try and rebuild our lives". Again, Edith paused. "For the moment, the church has no electricity and, because of that, tonight we have no organ. But, perhaps we don't need one".

With that enigmatic utterance, Edith sat down on the rush seated chair behind her. Then, having slipped the broad strap of the guitar around her neck, a moment or so later, and she began to play; the haunting opening chords of the well-known carol echoing through the hushed church. As she did so, Edith nodded to Max who, taking his cue from his mother, now began to sing:

 _Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,  
Alles schläft; einsam wacht  
Nur das traute hochheilige Paar.  
Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar,  
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!  
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!_

Max's voice was as striking a tenor as that possessed by his Uncle Tom. Now, as he began to sing, he held everyone spellbound. Staring into the middle distance, somewhere just above the apex of the tower arch, Max seemed completely oblivious to the effect he was having upon everybody gathered together, here in this ancient parish church, on this the most holiest of nights. The beautiful, lilting notes of the carol soared ever upwards, high above the heads of everyone, as far even as the huge oak rafters of the magnificent hammer beam roof, drifting among its carved wooden angels, mingling with the prayers and incense of the ages.

Exactly what it was, no-one ever knew. But, as Max continued to weave his magic, irrespective of whether or not anyone here present tonight believed in miracles, it was now that something totally unexpected happened. For, as he began the second verse, behind Max in the darkened chancel, lit only by a pair of candles, one set on either side of the High Altar, completely unbidden, the church choir began to croon the same tune. A moment later and everyone, whether English or Austrian, friend or foe, had joined in:

 _Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,_  
 _Hirten erst kundgemacht_  
 _Durch der Engel Halleluja,_  
 _Tönt es laut von fern und nah:_  
 _Christ, der Retter ist da!_  
 _Christ, der Retter ist da!_

Initially, disbelieving the evidence of his own ears, what it was that was happening finally dawned on Max. _Lieber_ _Gott_! They were with him! With this realisation, blinking back his tears, Max carried on with the third verse:

 _Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,_  
 _Gottes Sohn, o wie lacht_  
 _Lieb' aus deinem göttlichen Mund,_  
 _Da uns schlägt die rettende Stund'._  
 _Christ, in deiner Geburt!_  
 _Christ, in deiner Geburt_ _!_

And, by the time that the very last chord drifted away, and Max fell silent, there was not a dry eye in the church.

 **Author's Note:**

The opening of the boy pharaoh Tutankhamun's tomb in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt took place in November 1922. Contemporary newspapers were full of stories of there being a curse laid upon it to prevent its violation. But, while some of those associated with the opening of the tomb did indeed die in the years that followed its discovery, all of the deaths had perfectly rational explanations.

Published between 1938 and 1957, _Picture Post_ was a weekly magazine. In 1942, Deborah Kerr appeared in a March edition to promote the Utility range of clothing for women - an attempt by the wartime government to enlist what, today, would be termed "celebrity endorsement".

The advice offered to Mary by the young shop assistant in Ripon, regarding the procurement of turn ups, is quite true.

According to one of my correspondents, johnnybbad4, to whom I am very grateful for information received, _snakeskin_ was the most colourful of several colloquial names given to condoms in Indiana during this time.

Praitie - Irish slang for a potato.

Birching - flogging the bare buttocks of an offender with a bundle of birch twigs. At the time of the story, in England, boys up to the age of 14 could be sentenced to be thus flogged. Birching for both adults and juveniles as a judicial penalty would be abolished in 1948.

For Edith's wedding to Friedrich, and the part played in it by Max, see _The Rome Express_ , Chapter 56.

The tune for _Silent Night_ was written in Austria, in 1818; the words a couple of years earlier. That it was written for the guitar is perfectly true although the oft told tale that the organ in the local church was not working because mice had chewed through the leather of its bellows seems to be a fanciful, later invention.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty Two

Forever Part I

 **Railway Station, Downton, Yorkshire, Christmas Eve, 1942.**

Alec leant forward through the droplight of the grimy Third Class compartment and rested his hands firmly on Simon's shoulders.

"What I said to you, a few moments ago ... "  
Simon nodded.

"You said, forever".

Alec smiled.

"Yes I did. Now, promise me".

"I promise. Scouts' honour and all that," said Simon, looking up at him with a grin from the platform.

"Scouts ..."

"Weren't you ever in the Scouts?"

"Where I come from? Give over, Si'! Fat chance of that!" Alec shook his head, painfully aware once again how very different had been their respective upbringings.

"So, what time does your train get in?"

"To Leeds? About seven, I think. Then I'll catch the tram out to Beeston".

Behind them, from the rear of the train a whistle sounded and, a moment later, there came an answering toot from the engine.

"Look after yourself".

"I'll do my best to. Remember now, you promised to think about it".  
Simon nodded.

"Of course I will".

"That's all I ask," Alec said, at the same time relinquishing his grip on Simon's shoulders.

There came a sudden jolt and then, wreathed in a fug of both steam and smoke, the short train puffed noisily and self importantly out of the station, leaving Simon standing alone on the darkened, snowbound platform. A solitary figure, he remained where he was until the train had rounded the curve and vanished out of sight. Then, glancing at the station clock, realising that it was time he too was on his way, Simon set off through the falling snow back towards the abbey at the fastest possible speed his injured leg would allow.

* * *

 **Parish Church, Downton, Christmas Eve, 1942.**

At the end of the Carol Service, as the Crawleys and the Schönborns now filed out of the ancient parish church and into the snowy darkness, they found themselves beset on all sides by a throng of well-wishers, calling out to them the customary compliments of the season.

"Merry Christmas, Lord Grantham. Merry Christmas, Lady Grantham".

In acknowledgement of all the good wishes being bestowed, Matthew raised his hat several times, while Mary, wrapped warmly in her furs - with petrol scarce and no motor to take them back to the abbey, _Utility clothing be damned_ \- nodded her head appreciatively, at the same time looking round to see that Rebecca, Emily, and David were all following on close behind.

"Girls? David?"

"Here Mama! Here, Aunt Mary!"

"Thank you. And also to you".

"Merry Christmas, Lady Edith. You must be so very, very proud".

"Thank you. And to you as well. Indeed, I am".

Arm in arm with Friedrich, holding Kurt firmly by the hand, Edith nodded, taking the approbation for what, at least on the surface, it appeared to be, and for the most part indeed probably was. Both heartfelt and sincere. And yet, of course, that there were those here in Downton who bore the Schönborns no good will, indeed quite the reverse, was only all too obvious. The anonymous notes bore witness to that.

Like Mary, Edith too now cast a backward glance over her shoulder but in her case at both Max and Claire, also arm in arm, and following just behind. That she yet had grave reservations about the wisdom of the pair of them embarking on parenthood was still the case. But, seeing the two of them together, darling Max so attentive and solicitous for his young wife's welfare, guiding Claire carefully across the uneven paving of the church porch, she smiled. How, thought Edith, could she ever have ever doubted them? And, as Friedrich had said, _"Was sein wird wird sein",_ was true enough.

* * *

With heartfelt Christmas good wishes abounding from both sides of the family, having said goodnight to the Schönborns beside the front gate of Crawley House, Matthew and Mary both arm in arm, followed by the three children, all wrapped warmly in their coats, gloves, and scarves, set off through the darkened village and the falling snow, bound for the abbey. Given the weather, save for a murmur of voices coming from within the public bar of the Grantham Arms, here in the High Street there were few other people about. And, those that they did encounter scurried past, with scarcely a look, heads bowed, faces muffled by scarves, all of them obviously intent only on being snug within their own front doors as soon as possible.

A short while later, having left the village behind, for some reason, Mary found herself recalling to mind a scene from _The Wind In The Willows_ , by Kenneth Grahame, where the field mice paid a call on Mole End and sang a Carol for both Mole and Ratty:

 _"Goodman Joseph toiled through the snow ..."_

Why she should have thought of that at this precise moment in time, Mary couldn't fathom. After all, she hadn't read the book in years. Not since ... Of course! It had been Christmas Eve then too; when the children were all still small. Poor Simon had gone down with tonsillitis and guests expected for dinner that evening had cancelled on account of the bad weather. So, instead, Mary had sat beside Simon's bed in the Night Nursery, reading to him that very same episode in the story.

In the park, save for the veil of thickly falling snow, everything was still and quiet. _Stille nacht_ indeed; the bare, black branches of the trees sagging under their heavy mantle of white. It was now, just as they approached the first bend in the drive, that lifting her head, Mary glimpsed ahead of her, some distance away, a solitary figure limping towards the house. Immediately her thoughts turned once more to Simon. But what on earth was he doing out here, alone on Christmas night? Then came the bend, and, when next Mary looked, there was no-one to be seen.

* * *

With the rest of the family safely down at the parish church at the Carol Service, and with Robert still on his way back from Norfolk by train, Saiorse had told James that he could call her, if only briefly, at the abbey. Standing out in the hall, the very moment the telephone rang, straightaway she lifted the receiver.

"Downton Abbey".  
"Saiorse, is that you?"

"James! Yes. Of course. Merry Christmas".

"Merry Christmas".

"And the same to you ..."

* * *

"Weren't you frightened for sure?" she asked, as James recounted to her something of what had occurred during a recent air raid on Germany, exactly where he wouldn't say, in which he and his crew had taken part.

"Hell no, Saiorse," he drawled. "Up there you just get on with things. We got told there were bandits in the area, not that we saw any, mind. Then, when we were over ... I won't say where ... the flak started up. Course, we got bounced around quite a bit and the tail got riddled like a sieve but the scariest part came when two Forts collided off the starboard wing".

Bandits and flak Saiorse understood well enough. But, as for forts ..."

"Forts?"  
"Flying Fortresses. B-17s. Anyhow, once we'd dropped our bombs, at 25,000 feet, we just high tailed it outa there and made for home".

* * *

Having quietly replaced the receiver back in its cradle on the hall table, having made her way slowly back upstairs, it was as she was walking back along the upper landing that Saiorse caught sight of Simon standing in the shadows. Realising at once that he must have overheard the telephone call between herself and James, she flushed.

"Don't you know it's very rude to listen in on other people's conversations, for sure?" she asked with a touch of defiance.

Moving forward into the light, she saw Simon flush.

"I wasn't listening in," he said defensively.

"Anyway, just where have you been?" asked Saiorse artfully.

"I haven't been anywhere at all".

"Really?" Saiorse reached forward. "There's snow in your hair," she said, and with a knowing smile.

Simon blushed.

"It's all right, Simon. Your secret's safe enough with me".

"I haven't got a secret".  
"Haven't you? I thought everyone has at least one of those!"

* * *

Fortunately for Simon, at this precise moment, below them in the hall, with the family returned from church, the front door of the abbey swung open, letting in a blast of cold air. Upstairs on the gallery, without so much as another word and, also without being seen, Saiorse disappeared off along the corridor.

Downstairs in the hall, surveying their reddened, pinched faces, Matthew suggested that they all have cocoa, which Rebecca and Emily now volunteered to go downstairs and make. How things had changed, thought Mary, as she took off her hat and coat. Why, in times past, the motor would have been on hand to drive them all back from the church, and coffee would have been awaiting them on their return in the Drawing Room. Mary sighed. These days, it seemed that nothing ever stayed the same. Nothing was forever.

Glancing up, Mary caught sight of Simon, who, hastily having brushed the rest of the snow from out of his hair, was now standing on the upper landing of the Main Staircase, watching impressively as the rest of the family divested themselves of their outer clothes. Having done likewise, his mother nodded.

"And just where might you have been?" she asked, as Matthew and David went into the Drawing Room.

"Where have I been?" echoed Simon as he limped down the staircase. "Why, here of course, Mama. Where else would I have been?"

It was a lie obviously but despite that, his mother smiled, having the good sense to realise that Simon was old enough to have the right to keep certain matters of his own, private. No doubt he had been seeing some local girl, which explained why this evening he had chosen to absent himself from attending the Carol Service along with the rest of them. Clearly then, as darling Tom had said, some time ago, there had been nothing in those disgusting allegations made by Barrow regarding Simon and his pal Tristan.

"The girls are below stairs making us all cocoa". Mary grimaced. "Your father's idea. Not mine. Would you like some?"

Simon likewise pulled a face. Then laughed.

"Well, if you can manage to drink it, Mama, then I suppose I can too!"

A moment later, arm in arm, mother and son went together into the Drawing Room.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Boxing Day** **evening** **, 26th December 1942.**

As they had to return to London in but two days' time, Max and Claire were very glad to be at Downton when Robert arrived home on leave from RAF Coltishall, the base down in Norfolk, where he was now stationed. After all, they owed him such a very great deal for, had it not been for Robert's open-handed generosity in the first place and also Saiorse in agreeing to what it was he had in mind, even if at the time it got him into very hot water with both his own parents, then Max and Claire would never have had the money with which to marry. Rather more to the point, they would not now be expecting their first child, due in a month or so's time. As it was, the four of them spent a very convivial couple of days together. And, in view of what came after, in years to come, it was a moment in time to look back upon, both with fondness, and with regret.

So, tonight, while outside the winter weather grew ever worse, Robert and Max went off to play several frames of billiards on the other side of the house, with Matthew partnering Edith, and Friedrich joining forces with Mary in a foursome at bridge, Rebecca, David, Kurt, and Emily occupying themselves telling ghost stories, Saiorse and Claire sat together by the roaring fire in the Drawing Room, catching up on each other's news and reminiscing about old times, both before and after they had met their respective husbands.

* * *

 **Billiards Room, Downton Abbey, later that same evening.**

Outside, it sounded as though it had turned into a very rough night. A savage gust of wind hit the house, rattling the ill-fitting windows behind the closed shutters, the resultant draught setting the brass pendant lamps above the billiards table swaying back and forth, until Robert reached out and stilled them with his hand.

"Thanks. Isn't Simon going to be joining us after all?" asked Max, setting his cue firmly in the spider rest.

Robert shook his head, then shrugged dismissively.

"It doesn't look like it, does it? Anyway, I think Si' said something about telephoning a pal and then turning in early. Crikey! Will you listen to that wind! Well, at least Jerry won't be paying us a visit tonight. Oh, I say! Cracking shot! Well played! You know, you're getting as good at this as Danny". Rob nodded approvingly at Max who had just succeeded in potting a particularly tricky red.

Max grinned, basking in his cousin's approval. A moment later and the smile had faded from his lips.

"Speaking of Danny ..."

Robert nodded again.

"I know. It's absolutely bloody awful. The old man said that Uncle Tom would write more fully in the New Year, explaining exactly what happened, but from what little Uncle Tom said in his letter, apparently, it was a forest fire. For the sake of his boys, Danny's trying to put a brave face on it but ..." Rob shook his head in disbelief.

Laying down his cue on the side rail, and then straightening up, Max now looked his much loved cousin directly in the face.

"Rob, I hope you don't mind me asking this but ... is everything quite all right ... between you and Saiorse?"

"Do you know, the old man asked me pretty much the same thing earlier on this evening? Yes, of course. Why shouldn't it be?"

Now it was Max's turn to shake his head in disbelief. Rob always had been the poorest of liars.

"Isn't there an English phrase, about _reading someone like a book_?" asked Max airily. "And, anyway, aren't **you** forgetting something? Un pour tous. Et tous pour un? Für immer".

"Für immer?"

"Forever," explained Max.

Rob smiled.

"Touché!"

"So then, do you want to talk about it?"

For the moment, Rob chose to ignore what Max had asked. Instead, he reached down the cedar wood humidor from off the mantelpiece.

"Cigar?"  
Max shook his head.

"No thanks. I don't. Never have. At least, not since you and Danny gave me that bloody cigarette down in the old stables at the villa in Italy. My first and my last. I retched my guts up. Remember? But don't let that stop you".  
Rob grinned and took out a cigar.

"I won't. Well, money may be tight around here, but these don't come cheap! Finest Havana. I expect they're the last of Grandpapa's". Closing the lid of the humidor, Rob replaced the wooden box from whence he had taken it. Having lit his cigar, he inhaled deeply. "And then, when Aunt Edi ... I mean your dear Mama ... came looking for you, Danny and I both said ... you were back up at the house! And all the while ... you were just behind us ... throwing up in that loose box!"

Max laughed.

"You know, at the time, I wanted so much to be like you and Danny. That was why, when you both offered me that cigarette, I tried to pretend it wasn't my first. Stupid, really".

Rob smiled.

"As to what you asked a moment ago ... No. At least, not much".

Sensing that, despite what he had said, Rob did indeed want to talk, Max continued to look his cousin steadfastly in the face.

"So then, just what is it, that you don't want to discuss ... much?"

"You're like a dog with a blasted bone!" Rob grimaced; indicated the two leather chairs beside the fireplace. "Shall we make ourselves comfortable?"

A moment later, with the two of them settled, Rob lifted the stopper from the brandy decanter.

"Do you fancy another snifter?"

"I haven't much of a head for ... and besides, Claire doesn't like me to..."

"I think you might be needing it".

"Well, if you insist".  
"I do!"

Obediently, Max now did as he was told; he leaned forward and held out his empty glass.

* * *

 **Butler's Pantry, Downton Abbey, the same evening.**

With the needs of the family attended to, and with no further duties requiring his presence here at the house this evening, despite the weather, a short while earlier, Mr. Pickard had taken himself off down to the Grantham Arms for a convivial pint with a friend in the village. This being so, rather than risk using the telephone in the hall, and be overheard as had been the case with Saiorse, when Simon was quite certain that the coast was clear, unobserved, he slipped quickly and silently through the green baize door which shut off the offices from the rest of the great house.

A few minutes later and Simon had entered what, in days of old, when Mr. Carson held sway below stairs at Downton, had then been referred to, by the rest of the servants, as the _Holy of Holies._ However, with the domestic staff here at the abbey pared to the bone, with most of the work once undertaken by those who lived in, now being done by but a handful of girls who came in from the village a couple of times each week, the Butler's Pantry was but a shadow of what it had once been; the highly polished desk, sadly chipped and scuffed, its surface littered with all manner of detritus, and the ashtray full to overflowing with cigarette stubs.

Not that any of this bothered Simon.

Indeed, why should it?

Once inside the room, he picked up the receiver and when Mrs. Barraclough answered, immediately asked to be put through to a number in Leeds. Given the fact that, if she chose to do so, Mrs. Barraclough could listen in on what it was people were saying, Simon knew he was taking something of a risk; trusting to the fact that, on Boxing Night, instead of sitting in the bleak bareness of the small exchange, Mrs. Barraclough would take herself off back into her sitting room where, seated by the fire, it was much warmer. Down there in the village, Mrs. Barraclough was known to be something of a gossip, many suspecting, and with good reason, that she obtained much, if not all of the information which came her way as a result of her employment as the operator down at the local telephone exchange.

* * *

 **Old Lane, Beeston, Holbeck, Leeds, West Riding, Yorkshire.**

Somewhere, over on Beeston Road, he heard a tram clanging its way down into the city. Standing here beneath the gas lamp with its blackout shade, on the corner of Old Lane, close to the jam factory, with the collar of his coat turned up, in softly falling snow, and well nigh freezing his balls off, Alec glared in frustration at the telephone box. Not that he believed in Him, but, for God's sake, ring, he thought. For the umpteenth time, he shivered and stamped his feet. Talk about brass monkeys! Christ, it was cold! A couple of young women, both garishly made up, dressed in cheap finery, clearly already somewhat the worse for drink, stumbled towards him along the slippery surface of the pavement, on their way back home from the pub just down the road.

"'ere love, like to come and join us!" slurred one of the pair as she swayed into him. Alec thought she had probably done it on purpose.  
He shook his head.

"No thanks". He glanced once again at the telephone box.

"It ain't no use, dearie. She ain't goin' to ring!" The woman guffawed.

Alec shrugged.

"Perhaps not".

"Come on then!"  
"Like I said, no thanks".

"Well, fuck you!"

"Know what?" asked the other grasping hold of his arm. Like her friend, the woman reeked of perfume, alcohol, and stale cigarette smoke.  
"What? asked Alec, at the same time firmly removing her hand from his arm.

"Play your cards right, love, and both of us could show you a good time tonight!"

"I don't think so".

Giggling, the first woman made to reach between Alec's legs.

"Get off with you!" He pushed her away. The woman staggered backwards, promptly lost her balance, and fell over on her back in the snow from where, for a moment uncomprehending as to how it was she came to be where she was, propped on her elbows, she now gazed up dumbly at Alec.

Cold, damp reality dawned.

"'ere, that's fuckin' assault, that is!" she snarled, struggling to sit up. "I'll have the bleedin' law on you! You see if I fuckin' don't!"

Having helped her to her feet, her friend pawed ineffectively at the dusting of snow on the other's coat.

"Bloody poof!"

Many a true word, spoken in jest, thought Alec. He heard the two women snigger as, now giving up on him, they staggered off down the street. Then, a moment later and, his prayers were answered. The telephone began to ring. Hastily slipping back inside the box, Alec lifted the receiver.

"Hello?"  
"Alec, is that you?"  
"Si'! Thank God! I thought you'd forgotten!"

"No, of course not. Merry Christmas!"

"And the same to you ..."

"How are ..."  
"Don't even ask. Bloody awful! As usual! Christ, I wish I was back there with you!"

"I do too!"

"Have you thought anymore ... about what we talked about, down there at the station?"

There was a pause and as it lengthened, and all his hopes appeared to be dashed, once again, Alec sent up a silent prayer to the deity in whom he did not believe. He decided to take the proverbial bull by the horns.

"Si' are you still there?"  
"Yes".

"And?"

"Yes".

"Yes, what?"  
"Yes, I have thought about what we discussed. And that's my answer".

"What is?"  
"Yes!"

Alec stifled a sob.

"Are you crying?"

"I keep crying".

"Why?"  
"You know why".

* * *

 **Later that same evening.**

"What ever must you think of me?" asked Robert.

"No less than I thought of you before you told me about it all," replied Max.

"Thank you for that".

"My pleasure. After all, who's to say I, or indeed anyone else, wouldn't have done exactly the same, in similar circumstances. But my advice to you, Rob, is as I said to you a moment ago. Tell Saiorse everything that happened over there in France. About Marie, about the child ..."

"Max, I can't tell her about ..."  
"Rob, you must. And if you're the man I know you to be, then you will. You owe it to her ... and to yourself. You'll know no peace until you do. And the sooner you do it, the better. For both your sakes".

"You know something, Max?"  
"What?"

"A long time ago, when all of us were boys, Danny and I told you that we were very proud to have you as our cousin. Come what may, what ever happens in all of this, that's something that will never change. Für immer". Rob raised his glass in salutation and then swallowed the last of his brandy.

Smiling, Max blushed. Swallowing hard, he nodded his head, fearing that if he said anything at all by way of reply, his voice would betray him and the emotion now welling up inside would all come spilling out.

* * *

 **Drawing Room, Downton Abbey, earlier that same evening.**

Saiorse smiled.

"So, speaking professionally then, as a nurse, trust me, everything will be absolutely fine, for sure. But then, as someone who's training to be a doctor, I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that".

"Maybe. Maybe not. But I do hope so! And also for you as well," said Claire earnestly.

Saiorse smiled again. Reaching forward, she patted Claire's knee comfortingly before glancing up at the clock on the mantelpiece. A moment later she rose slowly to her feet.

"Thank you. I'm going upstairs to look in on the twins. Would you like to come along and see them?"

Claire nodded.

"Yes, of course".

* * *

 **Night Nursery, Downton Abbey, a short while later.**

Having satisfied herself that both Alexander and Sorcha were still fast asleep, and at least for the present undisturbed by the gale now blowing outside, with her hands linked together and placed protectively across her swollen belly, Saiorse stood motionless by the unshuttered window, gazing out into the snowy darkness beyond the house.

"Saiorse ..." began Claire.  
"Yes?"  
"Is everything all right?"  
"Yes, of course. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, don't mind me. It's just that you seemed ..."

Saiorse cut her off.

"Actually, no, it isn't. And the awful thing is, it's all my fault. The truth is ... I don't know what to do for sure. If only it ..."

For Claire, Saiorse had always seemed so adept, so capable in all that she did. Never once had Claire seen her look as Saiorse did now: so utterly bereft and forlorn and to see her thus was very disconcerting.

"Would it help if you were to tell me about it?" she asked gently.

* * *

 **Later.**

"There. So, now you know everything there is to tell. Have I shocked you, for sure?"  
Claire smiled. Sitting beside the fire in the nursery, she shook her head.

"Shocked? No, not at all. You know how much Max admires Rob. And, after all, we owe both of you a very great deal. Why, if Rob hadn't lent Max the money ... Saiorse, Rob's a good man. A kind man. He'll understand".

"I know he's a good man but that he'll understand, somehow I doubt that he ..."  
"Trust me, he will. But you have to be frank with him; tell him everything. And why it all came about".

Saiorse nodded.

"You and Max are so well matched. Everyone can see that. Even Aunt Mary says so".

Claire smiled happily, her face flushed, and not just from the heat of the fire.

"Max is wonderful. He's so kind and thoughtful and when he's well, he's so much fun! These last few months ... he's been so patient with me. Yes, we rub along all right but, just like any other couple, we do have our moments. Why, only last week he had the cheek to tell me that I ... _Watschelte wie eine Ente über._ I made him repeat it ... before I asked him what it meant. That in my present condition, when I walk, I waddle like a duck. Max was damned lucky he didn't land a clip round the ear! Not, of course, that I ever would ... hit him".

Saiorse laughed. Then, she grew serious.

"Claire, may I now ask you something?"  
"Of course".

"Have you ever thought as to what you would do if Max ..."

"... dies?" Claire shook her head emphatically. "No. And I know it may sound rather silly, but rather than worry about all of that, we do our very best not to think about it and try instead to make the very best of the time we have".

"It doesn't sound silly at all. Between you, you've found something that's rare and precious for sure. But, then, you don't need me or anyone else to tell you that, do you?"

"No," said Claire softly. "You're right. I don't".

* * *

 **New Year's Day, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, 1st January 1943.**

As Matthew slowly climbed the first flight of main staircase on his way up to bed, the grandfather clock on the middle landing struck one; marking the fact that the very first hour of 1943 had already passed into history. No wonder then that, as he grew older, the years seemed to be passing ever more quickly! But, as Heraclitus had put it, _There is nothing permanent, except change._

Earlier this evening, the celebration here at the abbey, marking the beginning of the New Year had been an extremely modest, not to say muted, affair. With Robert having returned to base, Max and Claire gone back up to London, Saiorse and Simon both having retired early, and with the children, including Kurt, in bed long since, even if they were not then yet asleep, it was just the four of them, Friedrich, Edith, Mary and himself, who had gathered together in front of the Drawing Room fireplace and raised their glasses to 1943. A very far cry from how the arrival of the New Year had been marked in the days when his late father-in-law had been the earl of Grantham.

Still, after his talk with Robert, a few days earlier, both about the war, as well as other matters somewhat closer to home, not that Matthew was any the wiser as to what might or might not be wrong between his son and daughter-in-law, he drew comfort from the fact that he had no doubt, none whatsoever, as to the fact that in the end the war against Germany, Italy, and Japan would be won. Only, despite this Matthew found himself wondering if, when peace at last came, victory would be achieved at too high a price. After all, much as with the Great War, from the perspective of someone who preferred diplomacy to cannonades, it was Matthew's considered opinion that the country had rushed headlong into this war, much as it had back in 1914, with no real thought as to the consequences.

* * *

Nonetheless, to begin with, Matthew's earnest hope that this new year of 1943 would bring better news for all of them seemed to be borne out by a series of events, both private and public, the latter which at last saw the tide of the war finally beginning to turn in favour of the Allies. At the Casablanca Conference held in French Morocco, Prime Minister Winston S. Churchill and President Franklin D. Roosevelt announced jointly that the Allies would accept nothing short of the unconditional surrender of the Axis powers. The RAF began bombing Berlin, and the first all American air raid on Germany would be launched - against the large naval base at Wilhelmshaven – and in which, a certain Lieutenant James A. Curtis would play his part.

In Russia, the German Sixth Army was on the point of being defeated at Stalingrad, while in North Africa, Rommel was retreating fast, eastwards across Libyan desert, and then into Tunisia, with the British having capturing Tripoli. And, out in the far East, the British, the Australians, and the Americans, were on the offensive against the Japanese in New Guinea.

While, here on the Home Front, here in England, on the face of it, both at Downton and up in London, for once there was, only good news, not least among which was that, while he was being very secretive about just who it was who was the object of his affections, Simon had found himself a sweetheart. Even so, both his parents had decided not to press him on the matter; no doubt he would tell them all about her in the fullness of time.

* * *

 **Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, Ireland, early January 1943.**

Understandably, following the tragedy of Carmen's death, Christmas, here in Blackrock, had been a somewhat muted affair. However, early in the New Year there had been an unexpected trip out to the farm on the Clontarf Castle Estate. The farm itself was now tenanted by Ciaran and Aislin's second son Ronan and his wife who had a growing family of their own. Helping in the running of the farm was Riordan, Ronan's younger brother, who Sybil had sketched when he was but a baby seated on his mother Aislin's knee; all of whom proceeded to make a very great fuss of Danny's three motherless young boys. And, also out at the farm was Ruari, the elder brother of both Ronan and Riordan who, as a boy of fourteen, Sybil had taught to dance out in the barn here at Christmas as long ago as 1919. A boy no longer but now in his thirties, married, and with children of his own, Ruari was an engineer working for the Great Southern Railways at their Inchicore Works.

The same day, when the Bransons returned home from the farm to the house in Idrone Terrace, to his delight and much to his surprise, Danny found there was a letter waiting for him, postmarked from London. Thereafter, with Ma's help, having settled his three boys down for the night, Danny retired to his old room to read his letter in private.

A short while later, with Tom already in bed - he had an awful cold and hadn't slept well for the past few nights - for once feeling every one of her years, Sybil wearily climbed the staircase to look in on Ailis and the boys. Save for the sound of Tom coughing as he turned in his sleep, the house was both still and silent. But now, as Sybil reached the head of the stairs, she heard muffled sobbing coming from Danny's room. She walked across the landing and knocked softly on his bedroom door. The sobbing ceased.

"Come in".

Sybil did as she was bidden, to find the room in darkness save for the lamp beside the single bed on which Danny was sitting with the letter lying beside him. Seeing his tear-stained face, Sybil's heart gave a lurch. Dear God, she thought, not more bad news. Swiftly crossing the room, she seated herself beside Danny, placing her arm gently around his hunched shoulders.

"It's from Max," he said softly.

"Is everything ..."

"Both Claire and he are fine, Ma, for sure".

"And the baby?" she asked cautiously, half fearful what Danny's reply might be.

"Due next month. Max says that Claire's got very big ... that she looks like a barrage balloon ... and waddles about their flat like one of the ducks on the lake in Regent's Park!"

Sybil smiled.

"How very ungallant of him to say so!"

Danny sniffed heavily.

"So ..."

"I know that since Carmen died, everyone over there at Downton's been so very kind, but no-one, not even Saiorse, has ever written me a letter quite like this before. Here ..." picking up Max's letter Danny handed it to his mother. "I want you to read it, Ma".

"But it's ... private".

"All the same, I want you to read it, for sure". Danny jabbed at the middle of the second page. "Here, just this bit, where he talks about Carmen ..."

"Well, if you're certain ..." Sybil still sounded doubtful.

"I am Ma".

Sybil did as she had been bidden; took the letter from him and began to read it. Danny saw the colour flood through Ma's cheeks. When she had finished reading, she set the letter aside.

"I understand now why it was you wanted me to read it. Max has grown into a very fine young man. All three of you have," said Ma gently. Danny nodded.

"Max and Claire, Rob and Saiorse, me and ... Why did it have to end like this Ma? That last day, before I left to go north across the island ... I can still remember ... Everything Carmen said, everything she did ... reminds me of just how much I loved her. I still do. I thought we'd be together forever. Without her ... nothing seems to mean anything any more".

"Believe me, my darling, it will".

Sadly, Danny shook his head. Sybil wished there was something she could say, something she could do, to ease the burden of Danny's pain and grief.

But there was nothing.

And then ...

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, late January 1943.**

As yet another splattering of sleet drove hard against the well curtained windows, with a bright fire burning in the grate, Saiorse sat up in bed with the swaddled baby held fast in her arms. Compared to the twins, this little one had arrived quickly. A mere four hours although it still seemed like a lifetime. There came a gentle knock and a moment later, smiling broadly, Rob put his head round the door.

"May I come in?"  
"Of course!" Saiorse likewise smiled.

"And …"  
"Come here and meet your daughter". Saiorse patted the bed next to her.

"Another girl?"

Saiorse nodded her head enthusiastically; now watched as Robert strode briskly across the room and seated himself on the bed beside his wife and new child.

"And you? What about you?" he asked with obvious and touching concern.

"It's very sweet of you to ask. To be truthful, tired, and a bit sore. But, for all that, as fit as a fiddle".

While he continued to study their daughter, Saiorse saw Rob was massaging his right wrist.

"What happened?"  
"Oh, it's nothing. Bit of a rough landing when I brought the kite in the other day".

In fact, what Rob had just said was something of an understatement, to describe what had happened when the undercarriage of his Hurricane collapsed on him as he had made a forced landing at RAF Coltishall; but it was not that which had caused the injury to his wrist. That had come about as a result of an exceedingly unpleasant encounter in a public house, just off Elm Hill, in Norwich, between a group of RAF lads and USAAF serviceman, of which, unknown to her, at least for the moment, Saiorse had been the cause.

* * *

Thanks in part to the advice offered them by Max and Claire, independently of each other, Robert and Saiorse had each decided it was time to bare their respective souls: he telling her the truth about Marie and the child he had fathered out of wedlock over there in France, and Saiorse revealing her affair with James, which she had tried to end a week or so earlier.

* * *

Somewhat late in the day, having decided to act upon the advice which Claire had given her at Christmas, taking advantage of the absence for the day of the whole family, including that of Simon, over at Easton Court, Saiorse had agreed to meet James here at the abbey. On the telephone, he had said he had something to tell her. _A_ _nd I you_ , she had replied. His own news turned out to be the fact that James was being posted down to Norfolk, quite close to where Robert himself was now serving. On hearing this, Saiorse assumed, naively, that it would help to make the break between them cleaner and also that much easier. In fact, nothing could have been further from the truth. For, as she was shortly to find out, Lieutenant James A. Curtis of Madison, Indiana, was not a man to give up on something he wanted. At least, not without a fight.

* * *

"James, I can't. Not anymore, I can't. It's not fair to you, to Robert, or to me". She broke away from him.

"Remember what we promised each other?" James enfolded Saiorse's hand in his own; saw her nod her head miserably. She did not have the heart to tell him that, on her part, this affair had begun been a way of punishing Robert for what, at the time, Saiorse had considered to be an unforgivable betrayal. James did not deserve that. But from the outset, as early as that very first time, in the Unicorn Hotel in Ripon, even if Saiorse was possessed of a sensuous nature, and being the daughter of Tom and Sybil Branson that was only to be expected, if she was truthful to no-one else except herself, Saiorse Crawley had found that she was not cut out for playing the role of an errant wife.

"Yes, I remember".

"There's a dance, over at ..." Saiorse shook her head.

"In my condition? Oh, James, be serious!"

"Well what about the movies then?"

"No, James, it's over. It has to be. Can't you see that?"

"You don't mean that. You can't. You don't love your husband!"

"Just who are you to tell me who I love and who I don't, for sure?"

"Saiorse, don't do this, please ..."

* * *

Both Robert and Saiorse sensed that the other had something to say, but for the present neither seemed prepared to be the first to open up. So, at least for the time being, they sat on the bed continuing to dote on the newest addition to their family.

"Do you have any preference ... as to a name for her?" asked Saiorse at last.

"Not really". Of course, he did, but Robert knew perfectly well that Saiorse would never have agreed to it, not once she knew the whole truth. After all, naming one's new born daughter after one's deceased mistress was hardly the done thing. "You choose!" he said disingenuously and with a laugh.

"Very well then. What about Aili? It means truthful".

Somehow, in the circumstances, it seemed singularly appropriate.

Robert nodded his agreement.

"If you like. Saiorse, darling, you do know that I love you. So very much".

"And I you. I know things haven't been exactly right between us for a while but I want so much to try and ..."

"I know, and I'm very much to blame".

"You are?"  
He nodded.

Now was the time to make a clean breast of things. But first there was a question Robert wanted answering.

"Saiorse, darling, will you tell me something?"

"Of course, if I can. Just what exactly did you have in mind?"  
"Does the name Curtis mean anything to you? More particularly, Lieutenant James A. Curtis?"

* * *

 **Crawley House, Downton, Yorkshire, late morning, 16th February 1943.**

"Yes, Mr. Max. Of course. And I'll see the master and the mistress are informed directly they return. Goodbye".

Nothing at all ever flustered Hilda Braithwaite and it was her no-nonsense approach to life in general that had greatly endeared her to Edith. Hilda now firmly replaced the receiver. Then, catching sight of young Kurt sitting on the stairs peeking down through the barristers, she smiled broadly.

"Well, Master Kurt, it do seem that your sister-in-law's having her baby. All being well, young man, you'll soon be an uncle!" Seeing Kurt's eyes now growing as round as saucers, Mrs. Braithwaite laughed out loud and, still chuckling merrily to herself, set off down the tiled hall towards the kitchen at the rear of the house.

* * *

 **St Mary Abbot's Hospital** , **Marloes Road, Kensington, London, early evening, 17th February 1943.**

In the dimly lit hospital corridor, with his head held firmly in his hands, gazing fixedly down at the brown linoleum covered floor, Max sat glumly on the hard wooden bench. Given how uncomfortable the seat was, it reminded him of the narrow, hard, unforgiving pew in Downton church in which the family had sat together on Christmas Eve.

Further along the corridor a door now opened and a nurse, carrying an enamel bowl with a towel draped over it, came out. A moment later and she had passed by Max without so much as a backward glance in his direction. Despite what Claire had told him, Max had only the vaguest idea of what childbirth entailed and while she had told him to be prepared for a long wait, it still seemed to be taking forever. He had heard her cry out several times, call his name, both of which had torn at his heart. But, powerless to help her, all he could do was sit here and wait; although surely something ought to have happened by …

"You can go in shortly". His mind befuddled, seeing a pair of sensible shoes before him and with the smell of both carbolic and starch now assailing his nostrils, Max raised his head.

"Ist ... alles ... in Ordnung? " he asked haltingly and in German.

The nurse looked at him oddly.

"I'm sorry," he stammered. "What I meant, is everything as it should be?"

Gazing down at him, the nurse thought him very young to be a father but, what with the war, this often seemed to be the way of it these days. People got on with things. However, having seen the two of them together earlier, when the wife had been admitted, the nurse could not doubt just how much they loved each other. In fact, she could scarce recall seeing a husband so concerned for the well-being of his wife. With that image now fixed firmly in her mind, sensing the young man's obvious alarm, the nurse smiled, and patted Max's shoulder reassuringly.

"Mother and child are both doing fine," she said.

Max rose immediately to his feet.

"My wife's had her baby?"

"Yes".

"And they're both ..."  
"Fine. Yes. The doctor's with them at the moment. Then you can go in".

"Do you know what she..."  
"No. And even if I did, I wouldn't ruin the surprise by telling you!" The nurse laughed.

"Thank you".

"Nicht erwähnen, es".

Max looked questioningly at her, as though his ears had deceived him.

The nurse smiled.

"My father was German. Yours too, I imagine. After his U-boat was sunk in the Channel, he spent two years as a prisoner of war, here, in England. When the Great War ended, he stayed on. Then, later, he met and married my mother".

Max smiled.

"Actually, my father's Austrian. My mother's English too. Her people come from Yorkshire. My parents are both archaeologists. They met out in Egypt back in 1922. Then, in '38, when the Nazis annexed Austria, all four of us, my parents, myself and my brother, had to leave. My wife's English. She's from Devonshire. We met soon after I arrived here. What does your father make of all of this? The war, I mean".

"Which one?"  
"Why this one, of course!"  
"Really? You know sometimes I find myself thinking the war began in 1914 and that it never actually ended. What happened in between was simply a sleight of hand".

"Sleight of hand?" asked Max. The phrase was unfamiliar to him.  
"Make believe then".  
"Make believe?"  
"Vorspiegelung".

"Ah, Vorspiegelung! Do you know, my father's said very much the same thing several times. But, putting that aside, what does your own father make of it all?"

"Well, up until last week you could have asked him ... "

Max lofted a brow.

"When it started, Dad became an ARP Warden. Last week, during a raid here on London, he was helping a group of English women and children to safety in a shelter. It took a direct hit. They were all killed outright … by a German bomb. It just goes on and on. There doesn't seem to be any sense in it, does there?"  
"No," said Max softly. "And more's the pity".

Glancing along the corridor, the nurse saw the door open.

"Ah, the doctor's just leaving. Well, goodbye and good luck to the both of you".

Max bowed his head, caught hold of her hand, and raised it briefly to his lips.

"Danke. Auf Wiedersehen".

Once more the nurse smiled.

A moment later and she was gone.

Then, so as not to make a noise, Max cautiously opened the door of his wife's room, and slipped quietly inside.

* * *

 **St Mary Abbot's Hospital** , **late evening, 17th February 1943.**

Seated on the hospital bed beside his wife, looking down at their newly born son swaddled snugly in a white shawl and held fast in Claire's arms, Max thought his heart would burst. Never before had he ever felt an emotion like the one that was coursing through him now.

"You know, he looks just like you," said Claire softly. Her eyes misting with tears, she pressed her lips to her son's forehead. "I can't believe that the two of us managed to create something so absolutely perfect".

Max smiled. Tentatively he reached out a forefinger and gently stroked the soft skin of his son's cheek.

"It's all right. He won't break!" Claire laughed. Startled by the unexpected sound, the baby opened his eyes which, Max now saw, were a vivid blue, and then, just as promptly, closed them again.

"Ich liebe dich so sehr. Für immer". Max brushed his own lips against Claire's cheek. "Ich werde dich ewig lieben".

"And I you. Would ... would you like to hold him?"

Tears brimming, Max nodded. A moment later Claire had eased the baby into his arms, and, while she settled herself contentedly against the mound of pillows, her husband continued happily to contemplate their little boy. A few moments later and Max looked up.

"And you're quite happy with ..."  
"His Christian name? Yes, of course. Although I expect Dad would have preferred something more English!"

Max kissed the crown of the baby's head; saw a tiny hand grasp one of Claire's fingers. He found himself wanting this precious moment to last forever. And, so intent were the new parents on studying their newborn son that neither of them heard the door of the room open.

"Well, I thought to be here before anything happened, but I see now that I ..."

Hearing his mother's voice, Max looked up, to see her standing there before him in the open doorway. For her part, Edith now saw her son turn before giving her a radiant smile.

"Darling Mama! Come and meet your grandson: Josef".

 **Author's Note:**

 _Holy of Holies -_ an inner sanctum - from the Hebrew Bible which refers so to the inner sanctuary of the Tabernacle, where God dwelt.

At the time of the story, the Moorhouse jam factory, on Old Lane, Beeston, was both a feature of the district and a major employer. Today, local residents recall being able to tell what jams were being made by the smell pervading the locality.

With the surrender of the German Sixth Army at Stalingrad, some 91,000 German soldiers were taken prisoner. All but 5,000 of these would die in captivity in Russia.

Together with Tom's adopted family, the farm on the Clontarf Castle Estate figures prominently in "Home Is Where The Heart Is".


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty Three

Forever Part II

 **London, England, late February 1943.**

From the windows of the taxi, on their way to the hotel, Matthew, Simon, and David saw that the London streets were full of service personnel: a veritable sea of both khaki and blue, with evidence of the terrible damage done to the capital by the Blitz, as well as of some of the precautions taken against the bombing everywhere apparent. From the sandbags piled around the entrances to public buildings, windows liberally taped to prevent splintering, the blackened, burned out shells of what had been churches, warehouses, shops, and homes, huge bomb craters, enormous piles of debris, of broken timbers, smashed glass, twisted pipework, and shattered bricks, once elegant squares stripped of all their cast iron railings, in the relentless drive for scrap metal, and signs pointing towards the nearest air raid shelter.

Not far from King's Cross, where they had arrived on the ten o'clock train from York, the taxi had been forced to take a short detour, on account of the fact that a sign announced "ROAD CLOSED"; owing to an unexploded bomb that had fallen somewhere close to Tavistock Place. And, while for the present, the worst of the bombing seemed to be over, air raids on London still continued, and with devastating consequences. According to the garrulous driver of the taxi cab, who insisted on referring to Matthew as "guvnor", only just last month, a school, in Catford, had received a direct hit, and which had inflicted terrible casualties; most of the dead and injured being children.

* * *

After taking the taxi from the railway station to the Russell Hotel in Bloomsbury, having unpacked, they took the Underground to the hustle and bustle of Piccadilly Circus, where, close by, at the Lyons Corner House on Coventry Street, they managed a luncheon of sorts, costing them 1/6d each; the orchestra there playing with such gusto that it precluded any form of meaningful conversation. Afterwards, Matthew, Simon, and David went to see a matinee performance of _Mrs Miniver_ starring Greer Garson and Walter Pidgeon which was showing at the Odeon in Leicester Square. Then, later that same afternoon, they took the Underground again, this time over to High Street, Kensington, to see Max, Claire, and young Josef.

That evening, it had been Matthew's intention that Simon, David, and he, all have supper back at their hotel, but Max and Claire were having none of it. Uncle Matthew, Simon, and young David were their guests and would be treated as such, with Max preparing for them in a large saucepan on the gas stove, one of his famous beef stews or, as he explained, to give it its correct name, _goulash_ , and for which, both he and Claire, had been saving up their meat ration coupons. This was followed by baked apples and custard; the apples having been sent up to them by Claire's father from the orchard down at the farm.

* * *

Over in the bay window, where he had been standing, looking down into the rapidly darkening street, now, as he closed the shutters which here, as at Downton, did duty as a blackout curtain, on turning, and seeing Claire with the baby in her arms, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, watching Max preparing them all supper, it was obvious to Matthew, as it had been to Mary, just how suited the two of them were. For, despite Max's aristocratic, Austrian lineage, and the fact that Claire was an English farmer's daughter, they were so evenly matched.

"Max, watch it doesn't burn ..." began Claire who, since her mother's death, and until her marriage, had done all of the cooking down at her parents' farm.

"Liebling, please to remind me again, just who's doing this? Me or you?"

The easy repartee between the pair of them put Matthew instantly in mind of dearest Tom and darling Sybil.

Understandably, seating in the flat was at a premium but, given the circumstances, they did the very best they could; although quite what Mary would have made of it all, was open to question. Once Claire had seen Josef settled in his second hand cot, sent up to them before the baby had been born, from Downton, where it had been languishing in the old Night Nursery, she and Matthew each took one of the chairs at the small table; Max, Simon, and David sat crammed together on the sofa, balancing their full plates on their knees, Simon remarking to David that it reminded him of their madcap ride in the old army lorry, along with Joe and Doug, southwards across Sumatra, from Palembang to Oosthaven.

The _goulash_ proved excellent, washed down with a Bordeaux Latour 1934, two bottles of which Matthew had brought with him from the sadly depleted cellars at Downton, one of which was to wet the baby's head. And, in the same battered suitcase, in which Matthew had brought the wine, there had been a pile of baby clothes sent down by Edith for little Josef. For her part, having caught sight of the contents of the decidedly shabby leather case before Matthew left to travel up to London, Mary had said that anyone seeing what she had seen would think that Matthew was not only a travelling salesman who dealt in baby linens but also an alcoholic.

There now followed a quietly spoken toast in honour of young Josef. In fact, to accord the little boy both of his Christian names, Josef Karl; the second having been bestowed upon him in honour of the last emperor of Austria Hungary. With Josef sleeping soundly in his cot next door in his parents' bedroom, it was as the toast was being made, in a mixture of un-matching glasses, that, for whatever reason, adding a surreal touch to the proceedings, all the lights went out. This sent Max scrambling around under the Belfast sink in the kitchen for stubs of candles, although, in the event, the interruption to the power supply proved fortunately to be of short duration, and the lights came back on within the hour.

* * *

 **Ballroom, Buckingham Palace, London.**

The following morning, after a passable breakfast at their hotel, Matthew, Simon, and David all set off for the Palace, taking the Underground once again, this time from Russell Square, by way of Piccadilly Circus, as far as Green Park, where David found himself fascinated by the escalators. And, thereafter on foot - Simon himself had insisted on walking, the doctor having said it was good for him to exercise his injured knee as much as possible - through the park, with its trenches and its barrage balloons, as far as Canada Gate, close to the Victoria Memorial. It was while they were walking through Green Park, that Papa had made mention of the fact that even the Palace itself had been bombed. That, as a result, Her Majesty The Queen, had been reported in the newspapers as having said that she could look the East End in the face. Maybe, but even if it that was true, when they reached the Palace, were admitted, and then passed through the Grand Entrance in the Quadrangle, and so inside, Simon himself saw no sign of it.

Indeed quite the reverse.

For, whatever it was that was happening out there beyond the smooth raked gravel of the forecourt, the ornate, gilded wrought iron gates and railings, for those living here, nothing ever changed. Within these hallowed walls, a life of unimagined wealth and privilege went on, seemingly just as it had always done. So, it appeared that Alec, not only a conscientious objector, but also an avowed Communist and republican, had been right all along. Not that Simon saw any incongruity in the fact that he himself was a scion of that very same class that Alec claimed so to despise.

* * *

When, shortly before last Christmas, the letter from the Palace had arrived at Downton, informing Simon as to the date of his forthcoming investiture with the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal, it also made mention of the fact that he was permitted to have one guest to accompany him. Gathered together in the Drawing Room, while the family had hotly debated at some length just who of them should accompany him, Simon had sat in silence. Naturally, all there present, who included Robert home briefly on leave, had assumed this stemmed from the fact that Simon wanted to avoid giving any offence by expressing a personal preference. And which was true enough, albeit not for the reason his own family imagined it to be. After all, given the choice of himself choosing who he wanted to go with him up to the Palace, it would have been none of them.

In the end, it was Aunt Edith who made the rather obvious point that as the earl of Grantham but also as head of the family, the honour of accompanying Simon should fall to Papa. Quite how it was, when the time came for both Papa and he to travel up to London, that David came along too, Simon never could discover. Presumably, at some point, Papa had made use of certain contacts of his own; had pulled strings. Because, when, in due course, all three of them had arrived at the Grand Entrance of the Palace, David's presence there passed without a murmur. And when Simon asked his father about it again later that day, all Papa would say was that David had as much right to be there as had he.

And so, there the matter rested.

* * *

With a small military band playing a selection of light airs behind them in the musicians' gallery, beneath which they, along with everyone else, had entered this vast, palatial room, sitting here with Papa and David, while he awaited his turn to be called forward, Simon took time to take in his present appropriately regal surroundings: the exquisite plasterwork of the soaring ceiling, with its magnificent array of cut glass chandeliers, the immaculate cream and gold paintwork on the panelled walls, the rows of gilt chairs, and, beneath his feet, the spotless state of the crimson carpet.

Yet, despite what Alec had said just this month past, regarding the monarchy, when Max and Claire had been at Downton last Christmas, and they had related to the assembled family the story of their chance encounter with Their Majesties in the aftermath of the bombing of Exeter, they had told an entirely different story. That, on the face of it, both the King and the Queen seemed genuinely to care about the suffering of their people.

And it was now, thinking of Max and Claire, and their new born son, whom they had seen last night at their drab second floor flat over in Kensington - not that either of them seemed to notice its inherent shabbiness - Simon readily conceded that there was something else which Alec had said, which must equally be true: that if two people loved each other, really loved each other, then nothing else mattered.

Just beside Simon there now came a discrete cough. Glancing up at the Gentleman Usher, Simon saw that it was time.

* * *

With a grin and a wink, both to Papa and to David, Simon rose to his feet, then marched as quickly as his injured knee would now permit, towards where at the far end of the room, the king was standing on the dais. On reaching it, he paused, came smartly to attention, and saluted crisply.

* * *

 **Refreshment Rooms, King's Cross railway station, London, the following morning.**

"So, what ... did the ... king ... say, **exactly**?" asked David between mouthfuls of Chelsea bun and taking sips of scalding tea. Understandably, he had been over the moon to be asked to accompany both Uncle Matthew and Simon up here to London for the latter's investiture at the Palace. After all, apart from the honour itself, it meant a couple of days away from his school in Ripon.

From where he himself had been seated, next to Uncle Matthew, during the ceremony itself, David had seen that the king was in naval uniform, of the Admiral of the Fleet according to Uncle Matthew, but what it was His Majesty had said to Simon, after he had pinned the medal on him, Simon said he could not now recall; at least not with any degree of certainty.

"Something about me being very brave, I think," said Simon.

"That's perfectly understandable," said his father.

"Well you were!" exclaimed David, recalling to mind the scene on the deck of the steamer in the Sunda Strait between Sumatra and Java, when it had come under attack by the Japanese, and Simon, roused to a cold fury by what he saw as the slaughter of innocents, had, without a thought for himself, valiantly manned a Bren gun and shot down one of the two attacking Japanese aircraft but only at the price of being seriously wounded himself.

"David, we've a long journey ahead of us. Do you want another of those?"

"Rather! What I mean, is yes, please Uncle Matthew".

"It's all right, your Aunt Mary isn't here!" Matthew grinned conspiratorially. "Simon, old chap, what about you?"

Simon shook his head.

Glancing out of the window he took in the arching overall roof of the huge station, the many platforms, thronged with military personnel, a smattering of civilian passengers, and a bevy of uniformed station staff, and from where in quick succession trains were both arriving and departing; the wheeled barrows and trollies, along with the piles of both luggage and newspapers. But, while he might pretend not to recall what it was the king had said to him, another conversation which Simon had had the previous night, from a telephone box in Bloomsbury, close to where they were all staying, at the Russell Hotel, he could recall in infinite detail.

* * *

 **Telephone Box, corner of Tavistock Place, Bloomsbury, London, the previous evening.**

They must, he assumed, have been successful in removing the UXB, as the street appeared to be open once again. Even so, there was little traffic about and, it being a bitterly cold and frosty February evening, only a handful of pedestrians; one of whom had been the American GI now inside the telephone box and who, in the darkness, had passed Simon by on the pavement, each of them singularly unaware that the other was heading for the very same destination. That had been half an hour since and here, on the corner of Tavistock Place, waiting with increasing impatience for the GI to leave the telephone box, Simon shivered. With his right knee being the way it was, stamping his feet, at least for the present, was out of the question; so instead he clapped his hands repeatedly to his sides, in an attempt to try and keep warm.

And then, finally, when Simon had all but given up hope, the GI came out and Simon went inside. He lifted up the receiver, and when the operator answered, asked for the number, that of the telephone box just outside the Grantham Arms back in Downton, pushed in a smattering of coins and then when he was put through, pressed Button A.

"Alec?"

"Yes. How are you?"

"Like you were in Leeds, remember? Freezing my balls off".

"Me too!"

They both laughed.

"Did it go all right?"

"Yes. I'll tell you all about it when I get back".

"Simon ..."  
"What?"

"Whatever I might think of the monarchy and all, I'm very proud of you".

There was silence on the other end of the telephone.

"Si'? Are you still there?"

"Of course," mumbled Simon trying to steady his voice.

* * *

While both Alec Foster and Simon Crawley assumed they had been discrete, in a place as small as Downton, and where everyone seemed to know the business of others, their surreptitious meetings had not gone unnoticed.

And tonight, when, at last, Alec left the telephone box, to set off back to the farm, in the frost hung darkness of the alley, much as Sam Ellis had been for young Kurt, they were waiting for him, with both their fists and their boots.

* * *

 **Crawley House, Downton, Yorkshire, March 1943.**

After having seen Alec in the Cottage Hospital, where he had been these last two weeks, lying battered and bruised, ever since he had been set upon, beaten, and left for dead in the alleyway behind the Grantham Arms, this afternoon, Simon paid a visit to Crawley House, to tell Uncle Friedrich and Aunt Edith all about the investiture and more importantly, at least for them, to let know how both Max and Claire were faring with young Josef.

And there was a third reason for Simon's visit here to Crawley House: to thank Uncle Friedrich, once again, for what he had done for Alec when, on his way back from a meeting of the Downton and District Historical Society, that very same night, he had found Alec lying on his back in the snowbound alleyway. Had his uncle not done so, and then raised the alarm, Simon knew very well that, in all probability, Alec would not now still be alive. As it was, it had been touch and go for a couple of days, with Alec drifting in and out of consciousness, before it became certain that he would pull through, and he began to rally, with Simon visiting him each and every day. So far, Alec's assailants had not been traced and it seemed unlikely that they ever would be. It was as if a conspiratorial wall of silence had descended here in the village over the entire matter, with muttered whisperings in the public bar of the Grantham Arms that the filthy little queer had got what he deserved, and that Mr. Simon Crawley should watch his step too, for all that he was a bloody war hero.

Not that he knew it, but the visit which Simon made this afternoon to Crawley House was to be one which he would remember for the rest of his life. For, with tea over and Friedrich having taken himself off to his study to continue working on the paper he was to give to the local archaeological society, and with Kurt not yet back from school, Edith seized her opportunity.

"And your ... chum, Mr. Foster ..."  
"What about him?"

"He's making a good recovery?"

""Yes, he seems to be".

"So ... will he stay here ... in Downton, when he's discharged ... after what happened?"

"I don't know ... I rather hope so".

"Simon, darling, may I ask you something?"

"Of course, Aunt Edith," replied Simon, all unsuspecting.

"Just how good a friend is he ... to you?"

"I don't know what you mean ..."

"I think you do, and also possibly, what's being said down here in the village, as to why what happened, took place," said Edith softly.

Simon shrugged.

"I don't".

"So, if I were to tell you ... that when we were living at Rosenberg, that summer your parents, Robert, you, and your sisters all came over to stay with us, there were two young men ... who had rented a cottage on our estate ... one of whom was an artist from Vienna ..."

Simon still said nothing. Instead, he appeared to have found something in the pattern of the carpet on the floor which had attracted his attention.

"Your ... chum, he's something of an artist, too, isn't he?"  
Simon's head snapped up.

"How do you know that?"

"When your uncle found him out there in the alley, he had this with him". Reaching down beside her armchair, Edith picked up a worn leather satchel; heard Simon's rapid intake of breath. "Here, I think you'd better have it". So saying, Edith handed her nephew the stained satchel. "Your ... friend is very talented".

"You've looked inside ..." began Simon nervously.  
"I have ... but, fortunately, for you, not your uncle".

Simon flushed red; recalling how embarrassed he had been when Alec first had made the suggestion that he pose naked for him in his bedroom over at Windrush Farm.

"You know, in Austria ... in Vienna, before the war ... there were guest houses, cafes, and bars where men ... and women ... of a certain disposition could ... meet".

"How on earth do you know that?" Simon sounded genuinely surprised, so much so that Edith had to smile.  
"There, now, have I shocked you? That I know about such things?"  
Simon nodded. His aunt seemed to be taking all of this completely in her stride. He couldn't imagine his own parents being so understanding. Sensing his confusion, Edith decided that in this, honesty was the best policy.  
"Because ... because I've travelled more widely than either your mother ... or your Aunt Sybil ... and so I know rather more of the world. As indeed, does your Uncle Tom".

"Uncle Tom?"  
Edith nodded.

"When he was a boy, he ran away to Dublin and lived on the streets".

"Uncle Tom? Really? I never knew that".  
His aunt nodded emphatically.

"Yes, really. And, as result, and, of course, these days because of him being a newspaper editor, there's very little that your uncle doesn't know about life and human nature; in all its various guises".

"I see".

"Of course, what with the Anschluss, how things are there now over in Austria ..." Edith shook her head sadly. "In any event, maybe, in a few years, you'll meet a girl, fall in love, marry, have children ..." Simon saw his aunt's eyes light on a framed photograph of Max and Claire arm in arm, standing on the small table beside the fireplace; saw too the pair of baby's bootees his aunt had lovingly been knitting.

It was now Simon's turn to shake his head.

"That's ... that's not how I am, Aunt Edith. That's not how I feel".

"Really?"

"Yes, really. So ... are you going to tell Papa and Mama?"  
Edith shook her head.

"Did you really think I would? No, of course not. Nor your Uncle Friedrich either. This is between you and me and no-one else".

"I don't know quite what to say. But, thank you, anyway". Simon breathed a sigh of evident heartfelt relief. Then he smiled. His aunt did likewise.

"That being so, may I presume to offer you some advice?"  
"Which is what, exactly?"  
"That when this war is over, finally over, both you ... and Alec ... find somewhere else to live, other than here in England ... where they are more tolerant of such ... relationships. France, perhaps".

Simon nodded.

"We've already talked about doing just that ... When the war is over ..." He sighed wistfully.

Edith nodded.

"If only it were. And then we too could go home". Her eyes lighted again on the picture of Max and Claire.

And then on an unframed snap of Claire with Josef held fast in her arms.

"All of us," she ended softly.

* * *

 **London, 15th March 1943.**

Laying down his fountain pen on the mahogany table, Matthew sighed, then briefly closed his eyes.

Slightly later than had been envisaged, at last, for better, or for worse, it was now done.

Opening his eyes again, he glanced briefly at the series of portraits lining the walls of the dark panelled room, then at the handful of others seated around the circular table, before looking out of the window. And, with what he now saw, he permitted himself a rueful smile. For, as if to confirm the fact that life indeed went on, down there on the pavement, close to a bomb damaged building, a postman was doing part of his daily round, emptying a pillar box. So, despite the momentous nature of what had just occurred here in this room overlooking Parliament Square, it seemed that in the grand scheme of things, it was really quite insignificant. Nothing untoward seemed to have happened; Big Ben had not chimed thirteen, the sky hadn't fallen in, and the Earth continued to revolve on its axis.

And speaking of axes, Matthew had half wondered, admittedly idly, if Göring's Luftwaffe might pay London a visit in order to mark the occasion but that had not happened either. Hardly surprising, given the fact that the vainglorious Reichsmarschall no doubt now had other things on his mind; the defeat of the German Sixth Army at Stalingrad for one. After all, it was rumoured that Göring had assured Herr Hitler that the Reichsmarschall's beloved Luftwaffe would be able to deliver hundreds of tons of supplies to the beleaguered German army encircled and trapped by the Soviets in the ruins of Stalingrad. Only of course, that had proven a vain boast which had proved impossible to fulfil, with, from the reports in the newspapers here in England, thousands of German soldiers marched off into captivity.

After some five centuries of ownership, no doubt Robert would have said _stewardship_ , a term with which Matthew himself readily identified, with the mere stroke of a pen, Downton Abbey and its estate had passed out of the hands of the Crawley family forever, into the care and ownership of the National Trust. True, the family would continue to reside there; the right to do so was sacrosanct; enshrined in the document before him and which, while his own solicitors had been through it with a fine tooth comb, Matthew himself had read and re-read until he almost knew its contents by heart. The residency clause guaranteed that the Crawleys would be permitted to reside at the abbey for the next fifty years. That would see him out, and possibly Robert too. What then would happen was anyone's guess.

There was, decided Matthew, a curious symmetry taking place.

Here in England, with the conveyance of Downton into the care of the National Trust, he was, in effect, setting the seal on some five hundred years of Crawley history. Across the Irish Sea, if Tom's latest letter was to be believed, his dearly loved Irish brother in law was contemplating, and seriously so, restoring, what, in effect, was the Bransons' ancestral home; Skerries House, burned out by the IRA back in January 1921, during the terrible insurrection in Ireland which had led, eventually, some would say inexorably, to the establishment of the Irish Free State. Matthew was certain that the irony of the present turn of events would not have been lost on his late father in law.

Matthew picked up his fountain pen and thrust it back inside his jacket, his eyes drifting to the Deed of Transfer on the desk before him and which he had just signed. Seeing the date, he smiled. The fifteenth of March. With his knowledge of Antiquity and love of things Classical, the significance of the date was not lost on him: the Ides of March, when Julius Caesar had been assassinated.

Still, following his marriage to Mary, and even more so since the death of Robert back in '31, in the intervening years he had done all he possibly could to safeguard the future of Downton and despite the demands made upon it by the war the estate was in far sounder shape than it had ever been; even if the north side the house needed major repairs to be undertaken before it could be opened to the public. Much to Mary's satisfaction, it seemed likely that particular event would have to be deferred, at least until the end of the war, by which time the boys from St. Dominic's would have returned to Sussex and the necessary remedial works completed. For the time being, or so Matthew had been informed, certain essential repairs would be put in hand immediately, so as to prevent any further damage by way of the ingress of the weather. But that was all. Owing to the shortage of both men and materials, any other work would have to wait until the war was over.

In the meantime, the National Trust would be continuing with its seeming endless cataloguing of all the contents of the house, right down to the very last ornament and stick of furniture; not only those which had been gifted to it but also those items which the Crawleys had placed with the Trust on indefinite loan, including, and much to Mary's dismay, in the Morning Room, facing each other in their heavy, gilt frames, the two full length portraits of Robert and of Cora, each resplendent in their coronets and ermine, painted back in 1911, for the Coronation of George V and Queen Mary.

* * *

Not long before the outbreak of the war, as the present earl and countess of Grantham, both Mary and Matthew, along with members of foreign royalty in the form of that handful of crowned heads of Europe whose monarchies had somehow managed to survive the dreadful cull of such institutions such as that of the Romanovs in Russia which had occurred shortly before and at the end of the Great War, along with other members of the British peerage, had attended the Coronation of the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth, the new king and queen, in Westminster Abbey, in May 1937.

With Grantham House long since sold and now converted, so it was said, into a third rate hotel, for the Coronation, Matthew and Mary had stayed at Claridges. Matthew"s tongue-in-cheek suggestion that they have Thomas book rooms for them at what, with a nod to its past antecedents was now called the Grantham Hotel, had been met with a decidedly frosty reception and a glacial stare on the part of Mary herself.

Meanwhile, with their parents both up in London, back at Downton on the morning of the Coronation the three eldest Crawley children had trooped dutifully over to the Dower House to watch the procession on their grandmother's newly installed television; their father having refused point blank to have one at the abbey. This despite Tom's confident assertion, something which not even Sybil herself believed, that one day such "sets" would be so commonplace that every house, whether in England or in Ireland, would have one. Matthew vehemently disagreed; had said that while it was undeniably clever, television was but a flash in the pan and that it would never catch on.

Despite all of the panoply and pomp attendant upon the centuries old tradition of the coronation of a new British monarch and his consort, including the presence of the Household Cavalry, the procession of State coaches, the military bands, the soldiers, the sailors, and the airmen, along with the cheering, flag waving crowds, it fell to Cora, who having watched the procession on television, to observe afterwards to Matthew and Mary that to her eyes the whole event was a somewhat muted affair. This perhaps on account of the fact that it was seen by some as a substitute for the Coronation of Edward VIII which had never taken place.

* * *

For the 1937 Coronation of King George and Queen Elizabeth had been held in the aftermath of the furore which had erupted first with the abdication of the new king's elder brother, briefly Edward VIII and now styled the Duke of Windsor, and his subsequent marriage to that ghastly, vulgar American divorcée, Wallis Simpson; both of whom had been packed off to Nassau, he as Governor of the Bahamas. Given its comparative remoteness, Matthew had heard tell that both the Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, and the British wartime government, hoped that with the interfering Duke and his equally meddling Duchess, both of whom were known to be Nazi sympathisers, now effectively interned so to speak, half way across the world in the Bahamas, they could thus be prevented from becoming involved in any intrigues, which some here in Britain hoped might yet lead to the Duke's reinstatement as King, and a peace settlement with Herr Hitler's Germany.

And, after the Coronation itself was over, the two chairs upon which Matthew and Mary had sat throughout the service in Westminster Abbey, both of which were upholstered in pale green velvet and embroidered with the Royal monogram of George VI, "GR" under a crown, were brought back to Yorkshire, to grace the hall at Downton.

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, April 1943.**

With Dermot staying with Declan and his parents over on Main Street in Blackrock, and Danny holding the fort, so to speak, with his three boys, at Idrone Terrace, Tom and Sybil with little Ailis, took the train south from Dublin's Kingsbridge station, as far as Cork where, having spent the night at the Imperial Hotel on South Mall, on the morrow, they had hired a motor - the branch line to Kinsale having closed many years ago - and drove out to Skerries on a beautiful spring morning which seemed to have borrowed something from summer.

Save for but one brief visit here, as long ago as the summer of 1924, and, at the time, an unexpected and unlooked for confrontation between Tom and Fergal, his cousin Maeve's son, it was over twenty years since they had last been standing where they were now; on the front steps of Skerries House. At the time, neither Dermot nor Ailish had been born and Danny's own memories of the place, which he had last seen as a four year old boy, when asked by his parents to say what he remembered of it, were hazy to say the least.

In the intervening years, the effects of both time and weather had wrought some changes hereabouts but, for the most part, little had altered. True, the drive was even more rutted and overgrown than Tom and Sybil recalled, but the burnt out ruins of the house were very much as they remembered. And while over twenty years of wind and rain had scoured the stonework clean of smoke from the fire which, back in January 1921, had destroyed the house when it had been set ablaze by the IRA and much of the front was now wreathed in ivy, the massive stone chimney stacks still towered over the weathered granite shell of the once elegant building. And from just beyond it came the familiar sound of the waves breaking upon the seashore below the house.

* * *

 **Skerries Cove.**

Here, down on the beach, below the cliffs on which there stood the ruined house, just as they had done all those years ago, with Danny, now they did the same with little Ailis; walking slowly, and arm in arm, along the windswept strand.

"Are you really certain that this is what you want to do?"

"I am, for sure".

"And ..."  
"Darlin' if yous going to ask how I'm feelin' ..."

Sybil nodded.

"So ..."

"Trevelyan's a fussy old maid ..."  
"Tom ..."  
"I'm feelin' grand, for sure". But then, as if to belie his words, Tom paused. "Why, it's much further along here than I remember. And the tide's on the turn. Shall we start back, for sure?"  
Sybil eyed him cautiously; then nodded her head. A moment later, and they began slowly to retrace their steps.

"Changing the subject, in her last letter, Mary said something sniffy about the both of us going into trade!" laughed Sybil, now holding tightly onto Ailis, as well as to her hat, as a sudden gust of wind threatened to send it skimming across the sand.

"Yes, well she would!" chuckled Tom. "Anyway, take no notice of her! Mary's still annoyed with Matthew for signing over Downton to the National Trust. By the way, his quip about her serving teas to the hoi polloi when the place finally opens to the public, went down like the proverbial lead balloon. Mind you, to be fair, I think even Mary realises it was either convey Downton into the care of the Trust, or else see the place sold. And, in any case, even if she is being sniffy, so what? You and I both know the world as we knew it changed at the end of the last war. And, mark my words, it will do so again at the end of this one. For sure".

"When are we meeting with the architect?"  
"Here, tomorrow. At eleven o'clock. From what he told me on the telephone, he's some connection with old Fitzmaurice. You remember? The solicitor on St. Patrick's Street? His nephew I think".

Sybil nodded.

"And what I suggested to you over dinner last night ... Have you thought anymore about that?"

At the mention of last night's _dinner_ , Tom had to smile. Here in Ireland, the Emergency had taken its toll on many things including, so it seemed, the standard of the food served at the Imperial Hotel in Cork. The lamb cutlets had been dreadful; more fat than meat and, as far as he was aware, Sybil had had nothing at all to do with their preparation.

"Love, I said I wouldn't touch another penny of your father's money ..."  
"Tom, darling, that was over twenty years ago. It's doing nothing where it is and it's a sizeable sum. So, please, after all this time, let it now be put to some use".

That gave Tom pause for thought. All those years ago, when they had deposited the money which Sybil's late father had given them so grudgingly, only once had a withdrawal been made from the account in which it had been placed, with the Bank of Ireland over on St. Stephen's Green, in distant Dublin. And that had been to pay for their steamer tickets over to England on the occasion of them going back to Downton for that very first time, as man and wife, and with Sybil heavily pregnant with Danny.

"I'll think about it, for sure," he said.

Sybil smiled.

"Well, have it your own way, Mr. Branson! You know that what I'm saying makes perfect sense. As always!"

"Oh, for sure!" Tom grinned and raised his eyebrows.

"Well it does," said Sybil haughtily. "Now, have you thought any more about a name?"

"As it happens, yes. But, since this is to be a joint venture, I was going to ask you about it first, for sure".

"I'm very glad to hear it! So, what have you in mind?"

" **Branson's** ," said Tom and he smiled his familiar lop-sided grin.

* * *

And so, while in Ireland the Emergency continued, elsewhere in the world, the war went on with further successes for the Allies. The Japanese expansion into the Pacific was brought to a halt at Guadacanal by the Americans, the Russians and the Germans fought each other for the possession of Kharkov in the Ukraine, the British accepted the surrender of the Italians and Germans in North Africa, while along with 3,000 of his Chindits, Colonel Orde Wingate crossed the Chindwin River and marched into Burma, taking the fight to the Japanese to try and stem their advance on India.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, 27th June 1943.**

Saiorse knew that she had to put an end to the affair with James. After all, she had promised Robert that she would do so. That, of course, had been back in January, when Aili had been born, each of them had been in a confessional mood, and equally seeking to make amends: Saiorse had told him about James, and in turn Robert had told her all about Marie and the baby. But quite how it was to be accomplished, without hurting James, Saiorse didn't yet know.

She had tried to end it before, but each time when push had come to shove, Saiorse had found herself unable to say what needed to be said. Tonight, however, she was resolved to do just that. Robert was still down in Norfolk, at RAF Coltishall, but he would be back on leave next week-end; while James, still with the United States' Eighth Army Air Force, was based at Horsham St. Faith, also in Norfolk, where he was acting presently as a Liaison Officer with the RAF. Given what had happened earlier in the year in that public house off Elm Hill in Norwich, all as a result of some injudicious remarks made by James and his pals in the hearing of, as it unfortunately turned out, some RAF chums of Robert, to Saiorse, the appointment seemed faintly ridiculous. And it was only as a result of all those involved in the ensuing fracas, offering to pay immediately for the damage caused to the interior of the Mitre Public House, that the summoning of the Redcaps had so narrowly been averted.

This week-end, James had secured a forty eight hour pass, which he had used to travel up here to Yorkshire, to stay at the Neville Arms in Little Wetherby, close to Downton, where Saiorse and he had arranged to meet for, as far as she was concerned, the very last time. The following evening, James had told her that he was off on yet another bombing sortie, over Germany; exactly where, of course, he wasn't at liberty to say.

And there was something else, too, which he couldn't bring himself to tell Saiorse about: the existence, back in Madison, Indiana, of both Fay and little Johnny, respectively, his wife and child.

* * *

 **Crawley House, Downton, Yorkshire, that same evening.**

"Papa said the meeting finishes at nine o'clock, so I won't be gone long. Wait for me, Liebling ?" Max smiled down at Claire and little Josef nestled asleep in her arms.

"Of course," said Claire brightly.

* * *

Downstairs, having slipped on his coat, Max heard his mother come into the hall. Seeing him, she smiled and then reached up and kissed him lightly on his forehead, something which she had often done when he had been a little boy, but now that he was a man grown, hadn't in years.

"Mama ..." Max enfolded her in his arms.

"Never forget just how much I love you," she said softly laying her head against his chest.

"And I you". Reluctantly, they let each other go.

"Papa and I should be back here about half past nine".

Edith nodded.

"Well then ..."

Max opened the door, and a moment later, he was gone.

* * *

It was as he began walking down the lane, that in the fading light of the summer's evening, on the opposite pavement Max now saw the dog; the image of Fritz, his own much loved dachshund.

"Frittie, was machst du den hier?" he called; although Max knew it couldn't possibly be Fritz, long dead, and buried in the grounds of Rosenberg these many years since.

The little dog barked and trotted happily towards Max, just as fast as his short legs would permit. Then suddenly, right in the middle of the road, the dog stopped and sat down, as if waiting for Max to come over to him. Realising the danger, Max stepped off the pavement and hurried towards where the dachshund sat waiting but, just as he reached the spot, the dog suddenly vanished. It was as if he had never been there at all.

* * *

Had he been thinking clearly, then seated as he was behind the steering wheel of the jeep, James would have realised that, here in England, he was now driving on the wrong side of the road. As it was, with his mind full of what Saiorse had said, that their affair was at an end, he didn't give it a moment's thought. Not that was until, the man stepped off from the narrow pavement directly in his path. At the last minute, James saw him; wrenched the steering wheel to the right in order to try and avoid a collision but it was too late and the bumper of the jeep struck the man a glancing blow.

Turning in his seat, James saw the man rising to his feet. Thank God! He wasn't seriously hurt.

* * *

A few miles further on, out in the country, and before he reached Ripon, James turned down a lane and pulled into the side of the road in order to inspect the jeep. Having done so, he heaved a sigh of relief. A slight dent to the front fender; nothing more. Well, that could have happened at any time. A wild animal ... And, if anyone asked, he'd hit a fox on his way back to camp. Lieutenant James A. Curtis of Madison, Indiana, always did have a very well honed sense of self preservation.

* * *

 **Cottage Hospital, Downton, Yorkshire, 28th June 1943.**

The significance of the date was not lost on Friedrich: 28th June, the very same date as the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife in Sarajevo, back in 1914; the single event which, finally, had tipped Europe over the edge and into the horrors of the Great War.

"But why can't I see Max?" sobbed Kurt.

"Because he's not very well and the doctor is with him, darling," said Mary gently. Despite her advancing years and her sciatica, she had seated the nine year old boy on her knees. "Do you think that I should ..." Mary inclined her head towards the door at the far end of the corridor.

Edith nodded in agreement.

"I think ... I think ... it would be for the best," she said haltingly.

"Kurt, darling, let's go and see if we can find you a copy of the Dandy down at the newsagents in the High Street. I think they'll be open. Would you like that?" asked Mary gently. Edith looked at her in utter amazement, as though Mary had taken complete leave of her senses. She hadn't expected her elder sister to even have heard of the Dandy.

Mary sensed that some explanation was in order.

"I saw one of the boys from St. Dominic's with one just the other day". She forced a smile.

"But what about Max?" Kurt sounded all too doubtful.

"You can see him when you and Aunt Mary come back," said Friedrich, trying to keep his voice neutral. He knew that what he had just said might well be untrue but believed it was for the best.

"Well ... all right then". Kurt slipped off his aunt's knees and then with his hand held firmly in hers, aunt and nephew set off down the linoleum floored corridor. As the door now closed behind them, Matthew placed his hand on Friedrich's shoulder.

"I'm so very, very sorry," he said.

Friedrich nodded; shook his head in seeming disbelief of what had come to pass.

"You know, anyone else would have walked away from all of this with nothing more than a couple of bruises. But when he fell, Max hit his head on the kerb and there's no way they can stem the bleeding in his brain. That being so, I think for all our sakes, it's better that it happens here, rather than over there in Leeds. In any case, the doctor told us that in all likelihood Max wouldn't even survive the journey, so it would be singularly pointless. By the way, I meant to ask you earlier ... Has there been any news at all ... about the driver ... the motor?"

Matthew shook his head.

"No, not so far. And from what I've been told, the police have very little to go on. A military vehicle of some kind; possibly a jeep".

The door opened and the nurse beckoned them hurriedly into the room.

* * *

Having listened to Max's chest with his stethoscope for several minutes for any sound, however faint, of there being a heart beat, the doctor removed the instrument from his ears, and then slowly shook his head.

"I'm very sorry," he said.

Her hand resting in Max's, with little Josef held gently against her shoulder, Claire stifled a sob. A moment later, gently letting go of Max's now lifeless hand, she rose and went to stand quietly beside the window.

Seated on the opposite side of the bed, and with Friedrich's hand resting lightly on her shoulder, although for the present not a single sound escaped from her lips, seemingly oblivious of everyone else in the room, Edith clutched herself tightly. While both she and Friedrich had known this day would come, now that it had, made it no less painful. Her sense of loss was overwhelming. Her eyes red from weeping, Edith looked up, over to where her daughter-in-law was standing with Josef warmly wrapped in a shawl lying asleep in her arms, looking out of the window, through which, along with the wrecked spire of St. Mary's Church, the brick chimney stacks and the red tiled roofs of Downton, it could be seen that dawn was now breaking.

Edith's eyes lighted on her grandson: Josef, the child born out of so much love, and, against all the odds, so far, seemingly born healthy.

It was singularly odd, she thought.

Given the deep and abiding love which, however briefly, both Max and Claire had shared, now that he was gone, Claire seemed remarkably composed; completely accepting of what had come to pass. Maybe ... maybe it was the grief. Sometimes ... sometimes it did that. Made one numb. Perhaps, also, it was something to do with Claire's medical training. Obviously, death was something to which she would have to become inured. Or maybe, maybe it was the fact that Max's death was proof positive that, despite all its advances, even now, medical science did not hold all the answers.

Somehow, sensing her mother-in-law's eyes were upon her, Claire turned her head, and smiled. A moment later and she resumed gazing out of the window. In fact, her seeming composure had nothing at all to do with any of her mother-in-law's unspoken imaginings. For, despite Claire's outwardly calm appearance, inwardly, emotionally, she was broken, and always would be.

Max had been the love of her life, to whom she had given her heart.

And that would never change.

Nothing, not even Max's death, would separate them.

That there would never be anyone to replace him was just as certain as the fact that Claire had known that when born, the baby she had been carrying would not only be healthy but also that the child would be a boy. She gazed down lovingly at Josef asleep in her arms. Just as she herself had said, according also to his grandmother, he looked the image of Max at precisely the same age. Claire smiled. And, she would see that Josef never forgot his father.

There was something else too and of which, Claire, while she was not at all religious, was equally certain, and which explained her air of seeming detachment from what had happened, here in the quiet of this lamp lit room at the Cottage Hospital here in Downton.

Death was but a parting.

One day Max and she would again be together.

And when that day finally dawned, it would be forever.

 **Author's Note:**

In modern day values, 1/6d equates to approximately £6-00.

Filmed by Metro Goldwyn Mayer, released in Britain in July 1942, and based on the novel of the same name by Jan Struther, _Mrs_ _Miniver_ , is a romantic wartime drama, depicting how the life of an ordinary British housewife in rural England is affected by the Second World War. The film went on to win six Academy Awards.

The bombing of Sandhurst Road School, Catford, in January 1943, killed 38 children and 6 teachers, while another 60 were injured, many being buried under rubble for hours. It is possible that the school building was mistaken for a factory.

Matthew was right: in the course of the war, Buckingham Palace was bombed several times. Even so, the king and queen refused to move out to the safety of Windsor Castle and investitures continued to be held at the Palace on a weekly basis. Queen Elizabeth's remark, about being able to look the East End in the face, is well known.

UXB - unexploded bomb.

The televising of the Coronation Procession in May 1937 was the first outside broadcast mounted by the BBC. While the Coronation service was transmitted on radio, it was done so without any commentary; the microphones placed in Westminster Abbey being turned off during what were considered to be the most sacred parts of the service. On this occasion, television cameras were not permitted inside the abbey. To date, the only coronation of a British monarch to be seen on television was that of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, which took place in June 1953.

Old Mr. Fitzmaurice, the solicitor, appears in _Home Is Where The Heart Is_.

Major General Orde Charles Wingate (1903–1944) was a senior officer in the British Army. Known best for his creation of the Chindit missions in Japanese-held territory during the Burma Campaign of World War II, Wingate was both eccentric and unorthodox. Whether his contribution to the Allied war effort in the Far East was actually beneficial, or in fact detrimental, is a matter of debate. He was killed in a plane crash in India in 1944.

Redcaps - Royal Military Police - so called because of the scarlet covers on their peaked caps or their scarlet coloured berets.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty Four

New Beginnings

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, July 1943.**

Darling Max's death stunned the whole family; leaving the Schönborns, the Bransons, and the Crawleys numb, with both shock and grief.

Apart from his parents and younger brother, given the depth of the love which Max and Claire had shared, she was obviously the one most affected by what had happened, while Danny and Robert, when they learned of what had occurred, were devastated beyond measure; even though from what both of them had been told by their own fathers several years ago, they were well aware that Max was unlikely to survive much beyond the age of twenty or thereabouts.

On the day of the funeral, the weather dawned bright and sunny, the warmth of the July sunshine belying what would be the sombre nature of the day's proceedings in the parish church here in Downton. Much as they would have wished it otherwise, the Bransons could not be present, the service being attended only by the Schönborns and the Crawleys, as well as by Claire's father and her brother Harold both of whom travelled up from Devonshire and who, after the funeral was over, Friedrich and Edith insisted stay with them at Crawley House, rather than at the Grantham Arms. And that, so it was assumed, would be all those who would be there.

However, while in many places the war might have served to loosen yet further the ties still existing between the Big House and the village, in Downton they had mostly stayed remarkably the same; a reflection, at least in part, of the high regard in which those hereabouts held the present earl of Grantham and his immediate family. So when it came to it, much to the surprise of both the Schönborns and the Crawleys, something, which had not occurred since the death of Robert Crawley back in the summer of '31, now took place. And, after it was over, Matthew was very glad that those of them who would form the next generation here at Downton had been there to witness it.

For, on the morning of Max's funeral, as a mark of respect, along with the Grantham Arms, every shop in the village closed and drew down their blinds while, as the cortège made its sad journey along the High Street, knots of estate workers and villagers stood in deferential silence to witness its passing as it made its slow way down from the abbey, pausing briefly at Crawley House, and thence as far as the lych gates of the parish church, where it was met by Reverend Davis.

Within the church, another surprise awaited the grieving family.

Save for the seats reserved at the front of the pews for the Schönborns and the Crawleys, the ancient building was packed, the entire congregation rising to its feet as Max's coffin was brought into the church, for there were those, and many of them, here in Downton, who had not forgotten the part the young Austrian had played in bringing everyone together at the Carol Service held here on Christmas Eve, standing on the very same spot where his bier now stood, and who were here to pay their respects to him and to express their heartfelt condolences to his family for a young life cut short. Of course there had been several casualties hereabouts during the war: Sam Shepherd killed at Dunkirk, John Innes lost at sea on one of the Arctic convoys, and Luke Ellis killed at El Alamein. But while these losses of kin were dreadful for their immediate families, it seemed that somehow, Max's death had touched everyone.

And if there were those in the neighbourhood who still bore the Schönborns any ill-will, they were no where to be seen, at least for the present.

As for the vehicle which had knocked Max over on West Street, so far, all attempts to trace both it and its driver had proved singularly fruitless.

* * *

 **Crawley House, Downton, Yorkshire, August 1943.**

With Friedrich downstairs in his study, and Kurt out riding with his aunt, up here at the top of the house, in the quiet, stillness of the room which had been converted into a nursery, Edith gazed lovingly down at the smiling, gurgling baby lying before her in his cot. There was absolutely no denying who his father had been. Dear little Josef looked the absolute image of darling Max at the same age. And now, some seven months after his birth, still completely healthy, seemingly born free from the taint of the haemophilia which had caused the death of his young father. While they would have to wait a little while longer to be absolutely certain, all of them, Claire, Friedrich and Edith, independently of each other, and collectively, now dared to hope that everything would yet be well.

And, as for young Kurt who, while missing his older brother dreadfully, he took his duties as an uncle very seriously indeed; spending hours up here in the nursery, talking to, and playing with his little nephew.

Obviously the arrangement, with Josef being cared for here in Downton by his grandmother while his mother continued with her medical studies up in London, was not ideal;. For one thing, it meant that Claire was unable to continue to breast feed her son but that was overcome, not by arranging a wet nurse as would once have been the case, but by Edith, ever practical, setting to and making up the baby's feeds out of cow's milk, hot water, and a teaspoon of sugar, which the baby took to like a duck to water. Knowing that darling Josef was in safe hands and well cared for, at least enabled Claire to carry on training to be a doctor and to travel to Downton when she was able to do so; something made easier by the fact that, in the weeks after Max's death, she took a tiny flat in Bloomsbury, let to her by an academic English friend of her Austrian father-in-law, and situated close to King's Cross station. After all, the flat in Kensington Max and she had shared held too many memories of their time together.

Meanwhile, here in Downton, in the weeks and months which followed Max's death, the baby's presence at Crawley House helped to assuage a fraction of the grief occasioned by his father's untimely death. Nonetheless, each and very day, come rain, come shine, Edith went the short distance over to the grave in the churchyard. And even before the erection of the white marble headstone, on which he was described as _a dearly loved son and adored husband_ , there was never a day when Max's quiet resting place in Downton's churchyard was ever without fresh flowers upon it.

* * *

 **Hawkstone Ridge, Downton Abbey Estate, Yorkshire, September 1943.**

Off Hawkstone Ridge, just below Old Humphrey, together, the black mare and the chestnut pony clattered slowly down along the stone track known locally as Dene Steep. Weaving their way through the waist high bracken, and towards the floor of the valley below, the track was both narrow and precipitous. So, it was a mark of her confidence in him as a rider that, when at last they turned their mounts to begin the long ride home, first having let Kurt lead the way, Mary had then let him turn from off the level track which would have brought them eventually to the same point but which would have taken far longer, and take instead the much more direct but abrupt descent that was Dene Steep. Seeing ahead of her, Kurt now half-turning in his saddle to see that she was following close behind him, Mary smiled. She had a very soft spot for this particular young nephew of hers, given the part he had played in helping to raise what had become to be known to one and all hereabouts as the Siege of Crawley House; let alone her heart going out to him following the death of his adored elder brother, Max. Now satisfied that all was as it should be, Kurt smiled faintly, then turned back and concentrated on guiding Festus down the rutted, steeply sloping track.

Since Max's death, these leisurely Saturday morning rides out with Aunt Mary had become something of a regular fixture for young Kurt who, after breakfast, pedalled swiftly on his bicycle all the way from Crawley House, along through the village, up to the stable yard of the abbey, just as he had done on the night of the siege, but these days in order to saddle up. And then, accompanied by his aunt, to clatter out for a lengthy ride around the estate on Festus, his new pony, bought for him by Uncle Matthew and Aunt Mary on the occasion of his tenth birthday, which Kurt had celebrated earlier this very month.

The pony, which Mary had heard of as being for sale through one of her friends, the Honourable Veronica Smythe of Langtoft Hall, and which she herself had then travelled over to Thirsk to inspect in order to ascertain if indeed it would prove suitable for Kurt, who had now outgrown Starlight, proved to be exactly what Mary was looking for. With her decision once made, and the price agreed, Festus had been despatched by the London and North Eastern Railway from Langtoft, arriving in a horsebox attached to the rear of the passenger train, scheduled to arrive at Downton at 3.30pm, on Saturday, 4th September, which was Kurt's birthday. With his birthday tea at Crawley House arranged for five o'clock, it was cutting things rather fine, especially these days when, given the demands made upon it by the war, the railway service was decidedly not what it had once been.

* * *

 **Railway Station, Downton, earlier that same month.**

Lying like a trooper, which she explained later to them all, both with a wry smile and a laugh, came as second nature to her, after having spent years dealing with mendacious Arab workers on various digs throughout both Palestine and Mesopotamia, Edith made a fine tale of it; why it was that this fine September afternoon they were down here at the railway station.

Along with Kurt's friend Isaac, save for Saiorse and the children who, for the time being, remained up at the abbey, the whole family, Kurt still unsuspecting, together with his parents, Uncle Matthew and Aunt Mary, even Simon, as well as Rebecca, Emily, and David, were all there to meet the afternoon train from Ripon, when, in a cloud of steam and smoke, and more to the point, on time, it pulled into the station at Downton.

Only a handful of passengers got off the train, and even less got on; Edith continuing with her spirited play acting, looking around, exclaiming to Mary she couldn't see their friend, that she must have missed the train, while all the while, keeping a weather eye on what was now happening at the far end of the platform. Here, conveniently screened from sight by the departing flurry of passengers, a short ramp was being lowered and the birthday pony duly trotted down it by a porter. Having now received a quick nod from Edith, Mary did her best to play along.

"Oh, Kurt! Look over there, darling! Why, there's a pony!" she exclaimed, feigning surprise, and which she hoped at least sounded slightly convincing. After all it was Edith who was the budding Margaret Lockwood of the family; not she. "Would you like to go and see?" When Kurt nodded his assent, taking the little boy firmly by the hand, Mary led him along the platform, as far as where the pony was standing beside the now empty horsebox.

"Do you like him?" Mary asked, after they had stood, hand in hand, watching the chestnut pony for a few minutes. Kurt nodded his head.

"Who does he belong to?" he asked.

"You," said Mary softly.

" **Me**?" asked Kurt. Mary paused; once before she had heard the same doubt in his voice as there was now. That had been when Max had been on the verge of passing away, and she had suggested that both she and Kurt leave the Cottage Hospital to go and see if a copy of the Dandy was to hand at the local newsagents.

"His name is Festus and he's your birthday present - from both Uncle Matthew ... and from me".

"For me? Really?" repeated Kurt, as though unable to comprehend what it was he was being told.

Mary nodded. She saw his bottom lip begin to tremble.

"What is it, darling?" she asked, kneeling down on the platform beside him. A moment later, Kurt flung his arms around her neck, almost knocking her off balance.

"I wish Max was here," he sobbed.

Mary glanced up at Edith. What on earth could one say, to someone as young as Kurt, in order to try and assuage the pain of losing someone as dear as a much loved older brother?

And then for Mary, inspiration suddenly dawned.

"Why don't we take Festus to say hello to Max?"

* * *

 **Hawkstone Ridge, Downton Abbey Estate.**

It was now as the two of them emerged from the cover of the grove of pine trees that, shielding her eyes from the midday sun with her gloved hand, Mary saw two figures heading slowly across the meadow. One she recognised immediately from his limping gait as Simon; the other she supposed must be Alec Foster, about whom Simon always seemed to be talking, and in whose company he was more often than not to be found. Not that, as once she might have done, did Mary begrudge her younger son a chum. After all this war had changed so many things, breaking down still further the barriers that yet remained between the classes and which had begun to crumble during the last war, as exemplified here in the family by the marriage which had taken place nearly a quarter of a century ago, between Tom and Sybil. Once of course Mary would have said Lady Sybil and Branson but that was all now long in the past.

Following the course of the two men as they slowly made their way towards the stile and the path that lead across the railway line close to Downton Halt, Mary resumed her consideration of Simon. Stuck here on the estate, unsure of what he wanted to do, now that he had been invalided out of the army, it was unsurprising that he had sought association where he could find it and so, for that reason, Mary was, for the time being, prepared to tolerate the singular friendship which had arisen between her son and the conscientious objector from the slums of Leeds.

In any event, when the war ended, Foster would be off back from whence he had first come; to Leeds, or was it Liverpool? Whichever it was, that would be the end of that. So what was Simon to do with his life? A cousin of Matthew's, to whom Mary assumed she too must be distantly related, out in British Columbia, had offered to find Simon a position with a paper company in ... Where had it been? Pow ... Powell River. Yes, that had been the name of the place, although Simon's reception of the proposal had been decidedly lukewarm, and given how decidedly uninterested he had been, the idea had been swiftly dropped.

Then had come the prospect of Kenya.

A warmer clime, to be sure, and better for Simon's injured knee, or so had written Tom in his reply to Mary's latest letter from which he and Sybil had learned that Simon might be going out to East Africa where, years ago, then believing Tom to be dead, Sybil herself had intended to go to take up a nursing position at the Kikuyu Mission, on the shores of Lake Victoria. As for Simon, the post, admittedly a minor one, which Matthew had heard of, through a contact of his in the Colonial Office, was on the governor's staff in Nairobi. However following hard upon the, as yet, unsolved murder of Lord Erroll, let alone the scandalous reputation of a section of the colony - the Happy Valley set - for sexual deviancy, Mary thought the very idea of sending Simon out to Kenya to be akin to sending a lamb to the slaughter. In matters sexual, she knew very well that Simon was entirely an innocent. After all, how could he be anything else?

However, the problem yet remained. What was to become of Simon. Something would have to be ...

At what it was she now saw, Mary quickly reined in her mount. In fact so suddenly did she do so, that the mare, baulking at the savage and unexpected tug on her bit, almost reared. Patting her shoulder and with soothing words, having at last calmed her horse, Mary now sat open-mouthed in astonishment. Hearing his aunt bring her mare to a stand on the track behind him, Kurt did likewise. Turning in his saddle once more, he saw his aunt staring down at the meadow below them. Kurt followed her gaze.

"Isn't that Simon down there with his friend?" he asked in all innocence.

"Yes, said Mary, dully. "I do believe it is".

* * *

There was very little that happened in Downton which did not, eventually, reach the ears of the countess of Grantham, and that included what had befallen Alec Foster down in the village some months ago, as well as too something of what it was said had given rise to it, and which, as with the business of the late and unlamented Barrow, Mary had dismissed out of hand. Perhaps if she had not done so, then what later ensued would not have happened, and the family would not have been torn apart.

A breach that would only finally be healed, when Mary herself had passed away.

* * *

 **Close to Downton Halt.**

"Got you!"

"Hey, Alec! Let go of me!" Having tackled Simon around the waist, the two of them had fallen together, Alec on top of Simon, amid the stooks of newly scythed grass which presently dotted the hay meadow.

"Why? What on earth's the matter? There's no-one here to see us". Now sitting astride Simon, leaning forward and holding him down by his arms, rubbing the tip of Simon's nose with his own, Alec grinned.

"Someone might," cautioned Simon.

" **Someone**? Who, for God's sake? Look about you, Si'! There's nobody here but the two of us".

"Don't you be so sure! Remember what happened to you back there in the village?" At that thinly veiled warning, a reminder, if any was needed, of what had occurred in the alleyway behind the Grantham Arms, Alec instantly released his hold before scrambling to his feet, where, having looked about him, he then stood gazing down at Simon. A moment later and Simon himself sat up.

"You know, for _someone_ who doesn't believe in the existence of the Almighty, you invoke Him quite a bit!" he said, pulling wisps of hay from his hair, rubbing his wrists, dusting himself down, and deliberately making use of the very same word which Alec had just used.

Alec laughed out loud.

"Maybe. That's my Wesleyan chapel upbringing coming to the fore. Come on!" Alec held out his hand and helped Simon to his feet. For a moment the two of them stood facing each other, their hands on the other's shoulders, before finally breaking apart and clambering over the adjacent stile.

* * *

 **Sheepwash Farm, Wrangaton, Devonshire, September 1943.**

"Claire, youm as good a cook as ever yer mother wer. So what youm plannin' doin' now?" Claire smiled at her father. She knew exactly what it was Dad was driving at and what it was he wanted to hear her say. That she intended giving up her training to be a doctor and, bringing Josef with her, would come back to live here, at Sheepwash, taking up where she had left off, as if both her plans for the future and her marriage to Max had never been.

With Harold, helped by Frank, out across the muddy yard, milking the cattle in the shippen, while Edward and Maggie washed up the supper things, seated at the table, looking around the low beamed kitchen of the farmhouse, seeing her brother and sisters hanging on her every word, Claire finished pouring the tea. Her eyes lighted on Josef sitting contentedly on her sister Marian's lap, happily blowing bubbles.

"What do you mean, Dad? What will I do now?" she asked setting down the teapot.

"'T'ain't right, it ain't. You'm up there all on yer own. And yer tacker up there. You'm should be 'ere, the pair of youm".

"Now Dad, we've been through all of this before, and you know what I said then ..."

"And what be that?" Claire's father jabbed his finger directly at the envelope and the sheet of paper lying before her on the table.  
"A letter, Dad. And, as I told you, it's private".

* * *

 **Over Schweinfurt, Bavaria, Germany, 14th October 1943.**

According to what they had been told back in England, after the last air raid here some two months earlier, lessons had been learned, and yet, as James now saw another Fort explode in a ball of flame off to starboard, he rather doubted the veracity of what had been said.

The sky was full of German fighters. "Christ! It's like the whole goddam Luftwaffe is out today," someone had said and which was true enough - Me. 109s, Me. 110s and Ju. 88s could be seen criss-crossing the sky in ever weaving skeins. Taking evasive action, banking first to the left and then to the right, far below, James saw a huge black column of smoke rising some 6,000 feet into the air from the blazing ball bearing factories which, yet again, were today's target.

The German fighters were coming in from all sides now, keeping the top turret, waist, and tail gunners more than busy. James caught sight of an Me. 109 spiralling down; saw the pilot bail out, his brown parachute open, and then a moment later, trailing smoke, a burning Ju. 88 flipped over, spinning earthwards. Its crew were not so fortunate, the plane exploding before they had time to get clear.

As the Fort approached the target, the flak began; it was everywhere, blackening the sky. And then, just as the bombs were released, an enormous explosion convulsed the B17 ...

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, October 1943.**

Early in October, on what, here in Ireland, turned out to be a bright autumn morning, with Danny behind the steering wheel of the Morris, under a cloudless sky and in warm sunshine too, the Bransons drove out from Cork and thence over to the house. Quite how he had managed to procure the petrol for the motor, Tom never said. And when Sybil had made mention of the matter, he had tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger and grinned impishly.

"Darlin', ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies".

And with that, Sybil had to be content, although she suspected that the petrol had come from the garage on Lower Glanmire Road, now owned by the son of Mr. Kelly who, early in 1921, had retrieved Tom's old army motorcycle in the aftermath of the burning of Cork, and with whom, like his father, Tom was, understandably, on very friendly terms.

Down in County Cork, hereabouts the hedgerows, the fields, and the trees were, for the most part, all still a deep green, with scarcely a leaf having fallen and, save for the occasional splash of both russet and gold, there was nothing at all to suggest that late summer had already waned into early autumn. Birdsong and the hum of insects filled the air, while the gardens of several of the whitewashed cottages they passed were full of flowers, which, wet with heavy early morning dew, sparkled like diamonds in the bright sunlight.

* * *

When at last they reached Skerries, it was to find a scene which, Tom said later, had reminded him of the ruined, sea-girt Castle of Carbonek in Thomas Malory's _Le Morte d'Arthur_. For now, like the _Sleeping Beauty_ , slowly but surely, the silent, ruined house, for over twenty years the haunt of nesting gulls, guillemots, and kittiwakes, was coming back to life. Thanks in no small measure to the money which Sybil's father had given the both of them back in 1919, and which, until recently, for years, Tom had refused steadfastly to countenance touching, now augmented by a substantial legacy left to Sybil by her late mother in her will, Skerries House was being reborn.

Parked in front of the old house was a battered old lorry, the original colour of which was difficult to determine with any degree of certainty and which belonged to the local builder Tom had engaged; this being the wiry, garrulous Mr. O'Reilly of Black Anchor Yard down in Kinsale, who wore a perpetual look of half-suppressed glee, akin to that borne by the manager of Cork United Football Club on realising that his team had won the League of Ireland Shield, that matters here at Skerries House were proceeding, more or less, according to plan.

As for the ruined mansion itself, this was now a veritable hive of activity. Shrouded completely in wooden scaffolding, the heavy poles and sturdy cross braces of which were lashed together with thick ropes, the granite walls had been stripped clean of the encroaching tendrils of ivy and, along with the massive chimney stacks, were presently being repointed; the scaffolding reached by a forest of tall ladders, up and down which there scurried a bevy of workmen carrying buckets, lengths of timber, and hods of brick and stone. Perched high up on the reinstated timbers of the roof, a pound of carpenters were busily engaged in sawing away lengths of wood that were surplus to requirements, while several men were nailing slates to the freshly laid battens.

Outside, on the hitherto weed grown gravel of the forecourt, now a sea of churned mud, a mason was seated redressing a piece of granite salvaged from the ruins with a chisel and a large wooden mallet, while close at hand, ready for use in the coming weeks, were to be seen other such stones awaiting reuse, along with stacks of bricks and slates, sheeted new timber in the form of floorboards, joists, window frames, and doors, with piles of sand and lime for the new mortar.

As Danny drew the motor to a stand, Mr O'Reilly bounded down the front steps with all the alacrity of a mountain goat.

"Ah, top of the mornin' to ya!" he beamed, touching the brim of his hat, as Tom and Sybil clambered out of the Morris, while behind him could be observed a succession of workmen, all of them wearing flat caps, waistcoats, corduroy trousers and boots, going in and coming out through what been the main entrance of the house, with wooden wheelbarrows. Those going in were empty; while those coming out were loaded with rubble from the fire which had destroyed the house back in January 1921.

* * *

Helped by Dermot, Danny took Daniel, Tomás, and little Rober down to the cove below the house to look at the sea, while Mr. O'Reilly led Tom and Sybil, with Ailis in her arms, on a lengthy tour of inspection, pointing out what had been achieved so far: the reinstatement of both ceilings and floors to the ground floor rooms, along with the re-plastering of the walls, and the fitting of skirtings, architraves, doors, and window frames. Up on the first floor, there was more of the same to be seen, with, as downstairs evidence, in the form of wires protruding from ceiling roses and from walls, of the new electricity supply as well as pipework for a web of cast iron radiators. Recalling to mind the time they had both last lived here, back in 1920, Tom said he had had more than enough of oil lamps and candles for lighting, let alone bringing in coal and peat for fires which, in the old house, had been the only means of heating. And, in due course, the telephone line to the house would be restored too.

So, it was a case of out with the old and in with the new.

With Ailis in her arms, standing in the centre of what they had decided would be their bedroom, Sybil watched as Tom listened to Mr. O'Reilly assuring him blandly that the radiators which were yet to be installed would be quite sufficient for their intended purpose; that the boiler downstairs in the old kitchen would be more than adequate to provide both hot water and heating. With his interest in all things mechanical, Tom, being Tom, came back with a whole host of questions about pressures, valves, and water flow, much of which seemed to quite go over the head of the loquacious builder from Kinsale; a by now perspiring Mr. O'Reilly promising that it might be for the best if he arranged for a representative of the radiator company to come out from Cork to satisfy Tom on all the points he had raised and to answer more fully any further questions which he might have as to the efficacy of the new heating system. When it came to the matter of when they would be able to move in, Mr. O'Reilly was on rather firmer ground; at least up to a point, assuring the Bransons that barring this and that, to be sure, the house would be ready for occupation by Christmas. In the New Year, depending on the weather, work would begin on restoring the derelict stable block which, for the present, was being used, in part, as a joiners' workshop for O'Reilly's carpenters.

"Ah, to be sure," echoed Tom, looking round him, taking in the wood shavings littering the floor, the piles of sawdust, off-cuts of timber, stray nails, and buckets of wet plaster. "But which Christmas would that be now?"

* * *

At the moment, what, when finished, would be the main staircase of the house, led no further than the reinstated first floor while the second flight ended abruptly in mid air. Leaving Da on the landing, seated, somewhat uncomfortably on a carpenter's horse, with Rober in his arms, and holding tightly onto both young Daniel and Tomás who, understandably, wanted to go with their father, with Dermot following hard on his heels, Danny climbed right to the very top of the second flight. Here, raising their heads, the two brothers looked up into the autumn sunlight through an intricate skeleton of pale timbers formed of the wall plates, beams, rafters and purlins of the new roof; proof, if any was needed, that after some twenty or so years of dereliction and decay, Skerries House was being restored to life.

* * *

" _House of Shaws_ ," said Tom nodding towards the unfinished staircase and with a grin at Danny when he and Dermot had at last re-joined him and his grandsons back down on the first floor landing.

His eldest son smiled down at him still seated on the carpenter's horse, amidst a sea of wood shavings and sawdust.

"Yes, Da, I remember, for sure. Although, if I'm supposed to be David Balfour, with Hoseason's ship waiting for me down there in Skerries Cove ..." Danny nodded his head in the direction of the sea which could be glimpsed, as well as heard, through an as yet unrestored window. "That then ..."

"That then makes me, Uncle Ebenezer, for sure!" Tom smiled.

Danny grinned.

"Never you, not that evil, old, _you-know-what_ ," chuckled Danny, minding his language, out of deference to the presence of both Daniel and Tomás, "I always saw you as Alan Breck. When, all those years ago, at bedtime, you read me the story, I used to imagine it was you and me up there in the Scottish Highlands, on the run through the heather, hiding from the redcoats".

At the image Danny evoked, Tom smiled.

"These days, I doubt I'd give the redcoats much of a run for their money, for sure".

The smile faded as Tom winced, clearly in pain.

"Da, are you all right?"

"For sure. Just a touch of indigestion, that's all".

"Indigestion? Da?" Danny lofted a questioning brow; saw his father grimace before pulling out of his jacket pocket a small circular box, opening it, taking from it a small pill which he placed under his tongue, before pushing the box back into his pocket.

"It comes and goes. It's nothing worry about. And not a word to your Ma Understood?"

* * *

 **Madison, Indiana, United States, November 1943.**

When the Western Union boy arrived with the telegram, young Johnny Curtis was out playing in the yard with Buster.

"THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES ME TO EXPRESS HIS REGRET THAT ..."

* * *

 **Drawing Room, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, November 1943.**

" ... and while I know it all must sound frightfully boring to you, darling, I preferred the minutiae of contract and tort. So it was Percy who dealt with that side of things. Criminal matters, matrimonial, and so forth. Some of it I have to say was quite scandalous. Not my cup of tea at all". Matthew swallowed down the last of his brandy and set down his glass on the table beside him. "So, if you don't mind me asking, Mary, darling ... why, after all these years, the sudden interest in my work as a solicitor?"

"Not at all. Nor is it sudden," observed Mary coolly and choosing her next words with infinite care. "But it's a side of you I know so very little about. I never have. And ... Percy?"

"Percy Tomlinson. After I left the firm to come here, not long before you and I married, Percy went into partnership with a mutual colleague, Geoffrey Sawyer. As far as I know, they're still in practice together over there in Manchester. Offices somewhere just off Deansgate; not far from the cathedral. Sawyer and Tomlinson. Good Lord!"  
"Good Lord, what?"  
"Well, thinking about it, I haven't seen Percy in years".

* * *

 **Library, Downton Abbey, the following morning.**

With Matthew safely out of the way down at the Estate Office, despite the National Trust taking over the house and some of the estate, he seemed to have more on his plate than ever, Mary seized her opportunity. Here in the Library, taking down a thick volume from off one of the shelves, she sat down in the chair behind her husband's desk. A few moments later and she had found what she wanted. Yes, here they were, Messrs. Sawyer and Tomlinson, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths, Cathedral Yard, Manchester.

* * *

Upstairs, in the privacy of her dressing room, sitting down at her escritoire, Mary took out a sheet of thickly embossed writing paper, bearing the crest of the earls of the Grantham, and, after a moment's pause while she collected her thoughts, began to compose a letter.

 _"... and so, I am given to understand that you are an erstwhile colleague of my husband, Lord Grantham._

 _It iis my intention to come and see you at your offices in Manchester, to consult upon a legal matter of some considerable delicacy. Shall we say next Thursday afternoon, at 2pm? Unless I hear to the contrary, I shall assume both time and place to be convenient"._

 _Mary Grantham_

* * *

 **Sawyer and Tomlinson, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths, Cathedral Yard, Manchester, late November 1943.**

"... and, of course, I am so very glad to hear that Craw ... Lord Grantham is well. And you have ... four children, is it? Do, please, sit down".

"Thank you. Indeed. Our eldest son is serving with the RAF, and is married with a young family of his own. Our younger son was in the army but was invalided out, quite recently, owing to an injury sustained on active service ... out in the Far East. And we have two girls".

Mr. Tomlinson beamed.

"Yes, of course. I read about your younger boy in the Times. Awarded the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal. Obviously a very brave young man but then, if I may make so bold as to say so, he must take after his father".

Not exactly, thought Mary. After all, if he did that, then I wouldn't be here now. She contrived a dry cough.

"Thank you,".

"So then, Lady Grantham, how is it that I may be of assistance to you? Your letter ... intrigued me". Mr. Tomlinson sat back in his chair and considered his client. A beautiful woman. Crawley had done very well for himself. Momentarily Mr. Tomlinson's eyes strayed to the photograph of his own wife, which stood on his desk. Dorothy was lovely but she couldn't hold a candle to the woman now seated before him, the flawless ivory of her face, lightly veiled, and framed by an elegant coiffure of dark hair.  
"To be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Tomlinson, I don't know quite where to begin".

"Lady Grantham, in my experience, I always find it best to start at the beginning". Mr. Tomlinson paused. He smiled. "My attempt at a little joke. May I stress that whatever you may say to me is said in the strictest confidence and will stay within these four walls. Even if it concerns ... your husband".

"It **doesn't** ," said Mary emphatically. "But it does concern my ... **our** son ... our younger son, ... and an unfortunate association".

"The one who was awarded the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal? But surely ..."  
"Just so".

"Then ..."

* * *

"I do begin to see what you mean, Lady Grantham. How perfectly dreadful for you. Most unfortunate, I must say. And, in all probability, but for the war, this regrettable _association_ might never have come about. Clearly this ... Foster is a corrupting influence, preying on a younger man, for what we must assume are his own immoral purposes. Well, there is a firm, the services of which we have employed in ... distasteful matters, such as this. We've have never found them wanting. They are beyond reproach".

"And ... discrete?"  
"But of course. Totally discrete. And while I may not approve of some of their methods ... what the eye doesn't see and so forth. The point is, Lady Grantham, they achieve results. In these kind of unfortunate situations, one cannot afford to be too ... delicate. Set a thief to catch a thief. Let me give the matter some further consideration as to how best we should proceed and I will then be in touch with you. I take it Craw... Forgive me, Lord Grantham knows ..."  
"My husband ... is singularly unaware of it, Mr. Tomlinson. Estate business, his duties of a magistrate, and so forth take up much of his time. And his _unawareness_ extends also to my visit here to you this afternoon. At the present moment ..." Mary glanced up at the clock on the wall. "... he is up in town on business. So, it goes without saying that nothing in any of this must touch my son. Is that quite understood?" Mary stubbed out her cigarette. She had never liked the taste; had lit it merely to try and steady her frayed nerves. "And, he must **never** , ever know ... how any of it came about. I trust I have made myself clear?"  
"Perfectly clear, Lady Grantham. Any communication by us to you will be by poste restante to the post office in ... shall we say Ripon?". Mary nodded. "Now as to the matter of our disbursements ..."

Mary could never have imagined that what, with best of intentions, she had set in train, here, in the panelled offices of a Manchester solicitor on a foggy November afternoon, would tear her family apart.

* * *

 **Downton Halt, Yorkshire, England, December 1943.**

When Alec clambered up into the shabby Third Class compartment from off the bleak wooden platform at Downton Halt, it was all he could do not to burst out laughing.

There in the corner sat Simon, sporting a deerstalker, scarf, and with the collar of his jacket pulled up, so that virtually all of his face was hidden from view. "Oh, very Sherlock Holmes, I must say!" laughed Alec, slamming the door shut behind him. A moment later, the train moved off, bound for Ripon. "And I thought you were the one who said we had to be discrete!" He shoved his battered case up on to the luggage rack above their heads. "Where the hell did you get that thing from?"

Simon gave a laugh and which was muffled by the scarf he was wearing.

"So I did," he said, now removing the scarf. "And, in answer to your other question, from the Gun Room, up at the abbey. It belonged to my grandfather. Not that I can ever remember seeing Grandpa wear it, mind". Simon set the battered deerstalker on the seat, and pulled down the collar of his jacket.

"There, now, is that better? Are you satisfied?"  
"Much! Yes!"

"I'm very glad to hear it!"

"Don't tell me this is the famous ..." From off the seat, Alec now picked up a decidedly battered and moth-eaten teddy bear which, as he did so, gave a mournful grunt.

"Oscar!" laughed Simon. "Indeed he is".

"Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Oscar Bear," laughed Alec. "I must say you look a bit worse for wear".  
"Mr. Foster! Lower your voice, please. Otherwise you'll hurt his feelings. Oscar's an old gentleman and these days he's very conscious about his appearance".

"Well," laughed Alec again, settling himself back on the seat next to his chum, "speaking of appearances, if that was your idea of a disguise, of being discrete, I have to say you'd never ever make a spy!"  
Simon smiled.

"I don't want to be a spy. I left that sort of thing to my cousin, Max".

"The one from Austria? The one who died; who had the problem with his blood?"  
"That's right. He wasn't really a spy but he did something for the War Office; exactly what, I'm not sure. Max was married to Claire. She's the one who's still training to be a doctor. Had a baby, shortly before Max died. A little boy: Josef. His grandparents, my Uncle Friedrich and Aunt Edith, are looking after him here in Downton, while Claire finishes her training up in London. Remember? I told you all about them, when you were in the Cottage Hospital".

Alec rolled his eyes.

"Yes, I remember. Tell me, Si', why is it that you have to come from such a large family?"  
Simon shrugged.

"That's just the way it is". He turned and gazed out of the window at the frozen countryside passing slowly beyond the carriage window.

Alec grinned and, joining him on the same seat, dug him playfully in the ribs.

"Don't be so serious, Si', I'm only joking. But, all these cousins of yours, I can't get my head round them. The one who lost his wife in the fire … where was it again?"  
"You mean Danny. He's from the Irish side of the family. Madeira. He's now back in Ireland, along with his three little boys. He's got a younger brother, Dermot and a much younger sister ... Ai ... something or other. They used to live in Dublin but now they've all moved down to somewhere near Cork, to be with their parents - my Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil. They're restoring an old house. Down near the coast. Apparently, it's been in the family for years. Burnt out by the IRA. At least that's what Papa told me".

Alec nodded.

"Yes, I remember you telling me about ... Danny. It must be absolutely dreadful for him".

"As it is for Claire. Yes, of course. Danny's other sister, Saiorse, she's the one who's married to my brother Rob. They've three children. There's Alex ..."  
"Oh, spare me the details, please!" Alec rolled his eyes in mock horror.

"All right!"

"Well you asked me!"

"So, what did you tell your parents?"

"That I was going into York, to see Tris's father. That ... he'd asked me to stay the week-end".

* * *

 **Stonegate, York, December 1943.**

The half timbered guest house, on Stonegate, where Simon had booked them a room, turned out to be run by a veritable termagant of a landlady and her self-effacing shadow of a husband, the woman eyeing Simon and his _cousin_ with immediate distrust but then, said Alec, she probably did the same to all of her lodgers. Having unpacked, they set off back into the city where, after a passable supper, by now grown easy in each other's company, they spent a very pleasant evening together in the Golden Fleece on Pavement, for the most part sitting by a roaring fire in the snug, minding their own business, letting the hustle and bustle of the pub pass them by, chatting, and making plans for what they would do when the war was over; most importantly what they would do to earn a living. With what Aunt Edith had said earlier, France looked to be one possible destination. Shortly before they left, about half past ten, the clock on the Minster chiming out loudly across the huddled roofs of the city in the frost hung air, Alec had slipped briefly outside to go across the icy yard to the gents, for what he called a _jimmy riddle._

* * *

"Let's get going," Alec said impatiently upon his return.

"Alec, is everything all right?" asked Simon looking up at his friend from beside the fire. Over the last few months, having got to know each other so well, Simon sensed immediately that something was not quite as it should be.

His face flushed, Alec nodded.

"Yes, of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

"I just thought you seemed ... Have I done something?"

"No, of course not, you bloody idiot!" Alec grinned and ruffled Simon's hair. " **We're** all right. Tell you about it when we get back".

They left the Fleece and set off at a brisk rate through the Shambles, back to their lodgings on Stonegate. With the blackout, the narrow streets were in darkness and, even here, in the very heart of the city, at this time of year, on a cold, frosty, fog hung winter's evening, there were few people about. Even so, with their heads bowed, walking companionably close, and not just for warmth, they failed to hear footsteps somewhere behind them; had all but reached their lodgings when, just as they turned down Stonegate, three men, two in civilian clothes, and the other, a soldier in uniform, emerged from an alleyway out of the fog.

"Yes, that's him, officer, said the soldier, pointing directly at Alec.

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, Christmas Eve, 1943.**

Sitting here at the desk in his bedroom at the top of Skerries House, in sound of the sea, and in nothing more than his vest and pyjama bottoms, with the smell of new paint and creosote assailing his nostrils, Danny heard the sound of Da and Ma's voices echoing up to him from the hall below. Danny smiled; Ma had been most insistent about it saying that if it had been good enough for Downton, then, this being their first Christmas in residence at Skerries, they would begin the same tradition here: the erection of a huge tree in the hall, decorated with baubles and ablaze with tiny electric lights, to which Da and Ma were now putting the finishing touches, arguing good-naturedly as to which one of them should be going up and down the step ladder.

Which was why, earlier today, in a truck borrowed from a fishmonger down in Kinsale, Danny and Dermot had gone over to Cullen Hall, the old Anstruther place which, like Skerries, had been burnt out in the Civil War, and never rebuilt, to find and cut down a suitable spruce which had then been hauled back here and duly put up in the stone-flagged hall at the foot of the restored main staircase of the house.

Along with little Ailis, Danny's own three boys, now hopefully asleep in the room next door to this one, had thought the tree to be amazing, something the like of which they had never seen before, and while Da marvelled at the wiring and the minute glass bulbs, for her part, ever practical, Ma worried, unnecessarily, or so said Da, about what the blaze of lights might do to the electrical supply.

* * *

With his back resting against the rail of the chair, Danny sighed, took up his fountain pen once again, and began to write. Unlike Da, who had such a way with words, whether written or spoken, Danny found setting things down on paper to be no easy task. "Why don't you ever say what you mean?" she had asked of him in her last letter which had arrived here but a matter of days ago.

Very well then, so be it.

He would do just that, for sure.

 _Skerries House,_

 _Kinsale,_

 _County Cork,_

 _Ireland._

 _Christmas Eve, 1943._

 _Dear Claire,_

 _You said in your last letter, that I never say what I mean. Well, bearing that in mind, would you do me the ..._

It was at this precise moment that all the lights in the house suddenly went out.

Downstairs, Ma could be heard calling for Dermot to go and find some candles, and then shouting at Da, telling him just what she herself thought of feckin' O'Reilly and his bland assurances, _for sure_ , about the reliability of the house's new electric wiring.

From Da there came nothing by way of reply.

For once, it seemed that his way with words had failed him.

 **Author's note:**

The antics of the Happy Valley set, a group of wealthy British expatriates, who became notorious for their hedonistic lifestyle out in Kenya, then a British colony, during the 1920s and 30s, and which so scandalised wartime Britain, are chronicled in the film "White Mischief"; as is the murder, in January 1941, also in Kenya, of Josslyn Victor Hay, twenty second Earl of Erroll (1901-1941) and which, to this day, still remains, at least officially, unsolved. The sexual misconduct of the ex-pats spawned a contemporary chat-up line, said to have been used at upper class house parties in 1930s London: "Tell me, are you married or do you live in Kenya?"

For the recovery of Tom's motorcycle, see "Reunion", Chapter Four.

 _House of Shaws_ \- see _Kidnapped_ by Robert Louis Stevenson.

Cork United Football Club won the League of Ireland Shield 1942-43.

Fort - Flying Fortress.

The second American air raid on the German ball bearing factories at Schweinfurt, which took place on 14th October 1943, was a disaster for the USAAF. Of the 291 Flying Fortresses which flew on this mission, 60 were shot down. Aircrew casualties were appalling, with 650 men lost out of 2,900."The fact was that the Eighth Air Force had for the time being lost air superiority over Germany".

 _Jimmy riddle_ : cockney rhyming slang for a piddle - urinating.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty Five

When The War Is Over

 **Somewhere over Schweinfurt, Bavaria, Germany, 14th October 1943.**

The first burst of flak had hit number four engine, while the second destroyed number three, also located on the starboard wing; others hit the radio room and the ball turret, before a final shell exploded in the nose of the Flying Fortress, shattering the plaxiglas.

* * *

With the emergency door kicked out, of the three of the crew who were left alive in the waist on board the blazing B17, with his hair singed and his flying suit beginning to smoulder, having discarded his steel helmet and clipped on his parachute, James was the last to bail out. And as he did so, and the white silk folds of his chute deployed, above him, the crippled Flying Fortress exploded in a fiery ball of flame.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, November 1943.**

"Thank you again, for letting me know, captain". Watched by Robert, Saiorse, whom he had called to the telephone when the call had come through from Captain Draper of the USAAF down in Norfolk, walked to the foot of the main staircase, where she promptly burst into tears. Robert was there in an instant, holding her close. He had seen this sort of thing so many times before. The news that in all likelihood, someone one knew, had been killed in action.

* * *

 **1944.**

For the Allies, 1944 began promisingly enough, with the Red Army entering Poland, then sweeping westwards towards the Baltic states; in Italy the British attacked Monte Cassino at the western end of the Gustav Line, while in the skies over Germany, as Squadron Leader Robert Crawley might have told you, the RAF continued with its bombing of Berlin, and then of Leipzig, and far away in the Pacific, the Americans landed in the MarshalI Islands and began air attacks on Japanese held Saipan, Guam, and Tinian, better known as the Mariana Islands.

For others, the new year did not begin nearly so well.

* * *

 **Stalag Luft I, Barth, Western Pomerania,** **Germany, January 1944.**

Despite the supplies furnished them by the YMCA, such as books for the library, musical instruments, phonographs, records, and sports equipment - softball, football and volleyball proved the most popular - for most of the inmates, nothing could overcome the mind numbing boredom of being incarcerated in a German POW camp. Added to which, in the wintertime, there was incessant cold, as well as the continual lack of adequate washing facilities, the lice, and the unpredictable nature of the _Goons_ , the camp guards. And, in terms of unpleasantness, not necessarily in that order.

As to the food, or rather what passed for it: three pieces of black bread with cheese or jam for breakfast, two pieces of bread with meat, fish, or jam for lunch, perhaps a thin, watery soup, quite what it was made of, it was best not to enquire too closely, and potatoes, vegetables, meat, and pie for dinner. Meagre fare indeed when it arrived, which sometimes it did not. And with it now being winter and the German guards' own rations having been cut, so too were those of the POWs. Had it not been for food parcels from both the American and the British Red Cross, things would have been even worse, while the arrival of mail from home was infrequent.

Here, on a bleak strip of land, jutting into the cold waters of the Baltic Sea, with the sound of the waves breaking against the walls of Barth Harbour clearly audible, awaiting roll call on this cold January morning, Lieutenant James A. Curtis stood looking disconsolately at the forest of snow clad pine trees beyond the barbed wire. With the sea to the north and to the east, the pine forest to the west, and with the camp surrounded by miles of barbed wire, watched over by guards in wooden towers equipped with both machine guns and search lights, any chance of escape looked to be a forlorn hope.

* * *

 **Police Court, Clifford Street, York, February 1944.**

"How do you plead?"

Here in court in the building on Clifford Street, the silence within the panelled room was absolute; so utterly complete, that one could have heard the dropping of the proverbial pin.

Alec raised his head and then looked straight ahead of him, seemingly directly at the Royal coat-of arms, with its boastful motto: _Dieu Et Mon Droit_ \- "God and My Right": the visual symbol of an institution which he wished to see abolished, invoking the munificence of a deity in the existence of whom he did not believe.

* * *

 **Parish Church, Downton, January 1944.**

It was cold, and outside, there was thick snow upon the ground.

Save for old Mr. Charles, now practising with gusto on the organ up in the chancel, busy readying himself for the hymns to be sung at Matins on Sunday morning, and who was presently playing the tune _Repton_ which, ever since his days at school in Ripon, had been one of Simon's favourites, Alec and Simon were alone. Seated here together, in the glacial chill and the deep cold of the Crawley Chapel, and thankfully unobserved by the elderly organist, it seemed to Simon that from the surrounding multitude of monuments there now gazed silently down upon him the disapproving eyes of countless past generations of his aristocratic ancestors. Glancing towards the altar, he saw the modest incised granite plaque commemorating Grandpapa and beside it that for Grandmama; although he knew well enough that while somewhere below his feet, his grandfather lay entombed in the Crawley vault, there was no such resting place for his grandmother. For when, back in the summer of 1941, that German bomber had crashed onto the Dower House, such had been the intensity of the fire which had ensued, no bodies had ever been recovered.

Despite the organ playing, both Alec and Simon still spoke softly, their voices hushed almost to little more than whispers.

"You do believe me, don't you?" That I didn't ... didn't do anything. When that soldier suggested that ... I told him to get lost".

Simon nodded his head.  
"Of course I do. Why would I think otherwise?" As if to reinforce the truth of what he had just said, he enfolded Alec's hand in his own, both for warmth and also by way of reassurance.

A moment later and Alec shook his head in disbelief.

"What?"

"The more I think about it all, the more I'm certain there's something about that night that doesn't add up. It was as if ..."  
"As if what?"  
"As if, he 'd been waiting in there for me ... I remember there was another man in the gents but he paid him no attention. None whatsoever. Waited for him to leave before he ..."  
"And you'd never seen him before?"  
"Never, and yet he knew my name".

"Perhaps he overheard me make use of it ... when we were in the snug".

"I don't see how. There was no-one else in there, except for the two of us. But now you come to mention it, I do seem to remember seeing him at the bar when I went to order those last couple of pints, although to be honest I didn't pay him that much attention. I was more intent on getting back to the snug so we could carry on making plans. And those two police officers ..."  
"What about them?"  
"Well, think about it, Si'. There wasn't time for that soldier to have been to the police station to make a complaint, which suggests that they were in on it too. Perhaps waiting somewhere in the shadows, close at hand".

"In on it?"

"A setup".

"Setup?"  
"All arranged beforehand".

"But why?"

"Search me!" Alec shrugged.

* * *

 **Police Court, Clifford Street, York, February 1944.**

"Guilty," Alec said in a firm and loud voice.

The magistrate duly entered Alec's plea.

"Be seated". The magistrate nodded to the police inspector who duly produced his notebook and read out a verbatim account of what it was said had transpired in the gentlemen's' toilets in the yard of the the public house here in the city the month before last.

Alec was ordered to stand.

"Have you anything to say?"

"No, sir".

"Then, sentenced to fourteen months with hard labour. Take him down".

Watching Alec from the public gallery, Simon's eyes were brim full of tears. He wanted to scream the place down. _But he didn't do it! He didn't do anything at all! I know he didn't!"_

* * *

 **Armley Gaol, Leeds, March 1944.**

"But why, Alec? Why in God's Name plead guilty to something you haven't done?"

"Because it was me they were after, Si', and because ... the police made it perfectly clear that if I pleaded guilty, then you'd be kept out of it".  
"Me?"

"Yes, you. Who else?"

"I don't understand".

"And there's something else too, which concerns ... your mother".

"Mama?"

"A few days ago, someone in here for a similar ... matter, told me something about a firm of solicitors in Manchester. Apparently ..."

* * *

 **Drawing Room, Downton Abbey, March 1944.**

Of course, he had known this day would have to come; when he had to explain himself to his parents, how he felt, his feelings towards Alec, what he intended to do, but now that it had arrived, following what Alec had told him over there in Armley, he felt strangely elated. That being so, Simon now stood his ground.

"Alec's decent, kind, and honourable. And I know I want to spend my life with him!"

"Don't be ridiculous!"  
"I'm not being ridiculous. That's how it is. That's how I feel. And besides, it's not your decision to make, Mama!"

"Really? I will **not** have you drag this family's name into the gutter by such a common, lewd association, let alone such disgusting conduct".

"Common, lewd association? Just what _disgusting conduct_ did you have in mind, Mama?"

Choosing to ignore her son, Mary spun on her heel, and instead rounded on Matthew, who so far had said very little on the matter.

"Well, your his father, say something, damn' it!"

"What on earth can I say?"

Mary shook her head in utter disbelief.

"Oh, for God's sake, Matthew! All your life you've been the same. You don't like confrontation. You never have. You just drift away".

"Mary, that's hardly fair. In any case, I've told you before, I prefer to win my battles ..."

"By diplomacy. Yes, yes. I've heard it before. We all have. But in practice what does that mean? You tell me that!"

"Mary, I ..."

"I tell you what it means it means, Matthew Crawley! When something needs to be addressed, it's me that has to deal with it. It always has been. This ... this threatens all of us, our family, our good name, our position here in this county. I won't have it!"

"If Simon's made up his mind about this, we can hardly ..."

Now choosing to ignore Matthew, Mary swung back to Simon.

"As for you, young man, you will take the position which was offered to you out there in Canada".

"I will do no such thing!"

Mary chose to ignore Simon's outburst.  
"And while the necessary arrangements are put in place, your allowance will be stopped, and you will remain here in this house ..."  
"Mama ! Don't be bloody ridiculous! I don't want your money. In any case, what are you going to do? Lock me up?"

For Mary, memory now stirred. The sudden remembrance of the confrontation, all those years ago, between dear, darling Papa and dearest Sybil.

 _I don't want any money and you can hardly lock me up._

"You are never to see this man again. Is that understood? And by the time he is released from prison ..."

Mary stopped what she was saying; but it was too late. Having let her temper get the better of her, she had already said far more than she had intended.

"I said nothing about Alec being in prison".

"Yes, you did".

"No, Mama, I didn't".

"You must have!"

Now, with a sudden reality dawning, the scales dropped from Simon's eyes.

"It was you, wasn't it?" he asked quietly.

"Me?"  
"Alec said that none of it made any sense. That he had been ... setup. When I went to see him, in prison, he said someone in there had told him that ..."

"I don't know what you're talking ..."  
"Don't lie to me, Mama!"  
"How dare you! What I did, it was for your own good ..."

Simon shook his head.

"How could you? _And out of good still to find means of evil_ ," said Simon softly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Something Alec once said. It's from Milton's _Paradise Lost"._

"Simon, please ..."

"I will never forgive you for this Mama. Never".

Simon turned abruptly on his heel and quitted the room, leaving his parents to stand speechless, looking helplessly, the one to the other.

* * *

 **Drawing Room, Crawley House, Downton, later that same day.**

"So, he is here then?"  
For the moment, Edith said nothing. Like Simon, somewhat earlier in the day, she simply stood her ground

"Well?" demanded Mary peremptorily.

"If he is, and I'm not saying he is, the truth is, Simon doesn't want to see you".

Mary's nostrils flared and colour flooded across her cheeks.

"How would you know that if he wasn't ... After all I've done for Kurt ... what I did for darling Max ... you'd deny me the right to speak with my own son?"

At the mention of darling Max, Edith's eyes glistened. She looked down at little Josef, seated in her lap, contentedly blowing bubbles; spared a thought too for young Kurt who thankfully was at school and so not at home to hear anything of what now was taking place.

"Mary, darling, I'm not denying you anything. Friedrich, darling, tell her, please!" In desperation, Edith looked helplessly from her elder sister and to her husband who was standing over by the door leading to the hall.

"Mary, Edith has the right in this. After all, Simon's a man grown, a war hero decorated by the King ... If he doesn't want to see you, then ..."

Mary rose to her feet.

"Very well then. Be it on your own heads!"  
"Whatever do you mean by that?" asked Edith nervously.

Mary glanced round the elegantly furnished, panelled room.

"This house is estate property, is only leased to you, let to you on a peppercorn rent, the furnishings too ..."  
"Mary, you can't mean that you would ..." Friedrich sounded appalled.

Mary said nothing further, but swept out of the room. A moment later, and they heard the front door slam shut behind her.

Friedrich came to stand beside Edith. Resting his hand gently on her shoulder, he looked fondly down at their grandson.

"Sie verärgert ... she doesn't mean it, you know ... She's upset".

"I know. But could she ..."

"Nein natürlich nicht. All the same, I'll speak to Matthew. Ask him to try and make Mary see some kind of sense in all of this ..."

* * *

 **Crawley House, Downton, that evening.**

"So, where exactly is it that you intend to go?"

"Alec has a half-sister; living over in Keighley. That's near Leeds. She's offered me a roof over my head; until all the furore dies down. Here's the address. You can write to me there, care of her. Her husband works on the canals. Lost his arm in the Great War and needs someone to help him with the locks. A pair of crocks together! So at least I won't either starve or else freeze to death".

Edith nodded. Her eyes glistened. This was not the way it should be. While she would not condone the nature of the relationship between Simon and this man Foster, Simon was her nephew. Had it been either of her two sons, darling Max, or dearest little Kurt who, when they were men grown had entered into such a relationship, while not approving of it, knowing too how matters stood as regards the law, whether in Austria or over here in England, Edith knew she would not have reacted in the way Mary had done. But then that was the difference between them. Mary always had been so concerned about both position and society. Even if it had taken darling Tom and dearest Sybil to show her the way, long ago, Edith had realised that such things were ephemeral and of little account, especially now, given the way society had changed in the aftermath of the Great War. And now, given this second world war, how it was changing further still.

"Then take this". Edith enfolded Simon's hands within her own. "It's not much but it's all I have at the moment. And, if you want me to do so, then I'll also write and tell your Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil, what it is that's happened ... and why".

"Write by all means, but I can't take money from you, Aunt Edith!" Simon sounded utterly appalled.

"It's the very least I can do. Especially after I failed to make your mother see sense. That not everyone chooses to live their lives …"

"I know, but Mama won't listen. Nonetheless, I'm truly grateful for all that you tried to do earlier".

The clock on the mantle piece chimed the half hour.

"Well, my train's at seven. Time I was off".

"Simon, darling, won't you reconsider ..."  
"Aunt Edith, you did your very best, to try and smooth things over. But, like Danny, like Rob, like ... Max, I want my own chance at happiness; even if that now has to wait until Alec is released next year".

He bent down to kiss her and then shouldered his pack from off the floor.

* * *

The sun was off the fields when Edith stood at the front door to see Simon go; watched him as he set off, limping down the path, through the gate, and then turned the corner, where he disappeared out of sight.

When the seven o'clock train pulled out of the station, Simon was on it.

And was gone from the village.

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, April 1944.**

"And does Aunt Edith say where it is that Simon's gone, Ma?" asked Danny.

"No, although apparently he told her, but then swore her to secrecy".

"I'm not surprised Matthew's feckin' angry with Mary. I know I would be if yous did something like that but then yous never would".

Sybil permitted herself the briefest of smiles.

"I'll take that as a compliment, Mr. Branson!"  
"Take it how yous will, darlin'! If what Matthew told me on the telephone is true, then what Mary did was unforgivable. After all these years, I would have thought that she would have ..."

"Tom, darling, you know as well as I do that Mary's always been her own worst enemy".

"From what Edith goes on to say here, now that tempers have cooled and the dust's settled somewhat, it sounds as though she thought she was acting in Simon's best interests. I don't think even she intended it would lead to ..."  
"Well, she bloody well ought to! So now she and Matthew are at loggerheads, Mary, Friedrich and Edith are daggers drawn after her threat to evict them from Crawley House, and Simon's disappeared! Jaysus! As if what with the Emergency and the war we didn't have enough feckin' trouble for sure!"

"Rob and Saiorse are very upset about Simon too, Da".

"Of course they are, son. That's only to be expected, for sure".

"Well thank God at least those two have come to their senses" exclaimed Sybil.

"Yous mean about ..."  
"That damned American, yes!" Sybil looked over to where Danny lounged in the doorway. "Curtis, wasn't it?"

"Yes, Ma. Yous know it was".

"While I'm glad he isn't dead, I can't say that I'm at all sorry he's now a POW. If you ask me, over there in Germany, he's out of harm's way and can't cause any more mischief. But for this damned war, none of this would ever have happened. That's not to say I didn't give your sister a piece of my mind when she told me what had been going on". The look of amusement on the faces of both Tom and Danny did not go unnoticed, or unchallenged, by Sybil.

"And woe betide either of you, if you dare to suggest that I haven't enough of a mind to be giving a piece of it to Saiorse ..."  
"Perish the thought!" laughed Tom. Then he grew serious. "What about the girl in the Resistance, the one Rob met over there in France?"

"From what Max said, her brother told Rob she'd been shot by the Germans, Da".

Tom nodded.

"Yes, of course".

"Max said that Rob intended to make some provision for the baby, something which Saiorse agrees with, even though there's no actual proof the child is his. Of course, until the war ends, there's nothing he can do," said Danny.

"Changing the subject, have you heard from Claire again?"

" **Yes** , Ma," said Danny, through gritted teeth. "I had a letter from her just last month".

"I meant more recently than that".

"No, Ma. I **don't** expect to. She's got exams, remember?"  
"Oh, yes, of course," said Sybil, applying herself to wiping Rober's runny nose. The little boy snuffled, then giggled. Of Danny and Carmen's three boys he was the only one to have fair hair. With his infectious grin and sunny temperament, he reminded Sybil so much of darling Bobby who, if he had lived, would have been eighteen this very year.

* * *

From the window, Tom and Sybil watched as Danny, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his overalls, headed off down towards the old stables where he had set up his motor repair workshop, kicking disconsolately at the gravel of the forecourt as he went.

"He used to do that when he was a boy and upset. Remember?" asked Tom.

Sybil nodded.

"Yes, he did. I wonder if he's asked her?"

"I'll lay you ten to one that he has," said Tom with a grin.

"There's no denying he's head over heels," agreed Sybil.

"But whether she feels the same way about him ..."

"Good looking, charming, personable ..."  
"That's me you're describing darlin'!"  
"Tom, be serious!"  
Tom laughed.

"I was! Very well then, as you said, good looking, charming, personable, fit and healthy, a change after all those wounded chaps Claire sees in the hospital, single ..."

"Single? Well, in a manner of speaking, yes. But there's the rub, darling. Each of them is single, but in name only. Caught by the past: that's their trouble. The both of them".

"For sure," agreed Tom.

* * *

As in so many things, Sybil had the right of it.

Beside the old stables, well away from prying eyes, Danny pulled out the latest letter, now creased and oil stained, which he had received from Claire and which, despite what he had said to Ma, had arrived here but a couple of days since. Claire had told him that he never said what he meant but now that he had, declared his hand so to speak, all he seemed to have done was to make matters worse. Of course, it was true enough that she had examinations to pass; that it made sense that Claire concentrate on those, while the rest of her time was occupied with trips either up to Downton to see Josef and his grandparents or else, and far less often, down to Devonshire to see her own family.

" _Well I'm not Max, for sure_ ..." he had written.

" _And I'm not Carmen_ ..." she had replied.

And there, so to speak, at least for the present, the matter rested.

* * *

 **Drawing Room, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, April 1944.**

"Well, at least that's some good news," said Matthew now standing up, at the same time watching the retreating forms of both Robert and Saiorse as, hand in hand, they left the Drawing Room.

"Another grandchild to look forward to". Mary looked up. "I can scarcely believe it".

Matthew nodded.

"Neither can I. Now, as to what we were discussing before Robert and Saiorse came in to tell us both their happy news. As I was saying, it's called _entrapment_ ".

"Entrapment?"

"Exactly so. Where someone is induced to commit a crime when, all other things being equal, they would not have committed it. Generally speaking, the law does not look favourably upon such actions - as Tomlinson would have known". Matthew's facial expression said it all; it registered total disgust. "And while I, like you, do not approve of the relationship between Simon and this man Foster, you had no business doing what you did. The main thing now is to have Simon come home to us. Then we can take stock and decide what to do. In his letter, the one Edith told us she prevailed upon him to write, he said that he was fine, not to worry ... All the same I ..." Matthew shook his head in obvious disbelief. "Mary, darling, I can understand why you did what you did, even if it was misguided. If only you'd come to me first". Matthew sighed. "But what's done is done. That Percy Tomlinson should have stooped so low as to use such tactics, to employ such creatures in the first place ... I told you before ... that I didn't approve of some of his methods". Matthew glanced over at the clock. "Anyway, I've a meeting with the Trustees of the hospital, and I'm late as it is already. We'll talk about this again when I return".

"Do you hate me very much?" Her face ashen, Mary looked up at him from the sofa.

" **Hate** you? Mary, that's an appalling word to use, about anyone, whatever the circumstances. After all we've shared together down the years, the children, Downton? Do you really think I could ever do that?" Matthew shook his head vehemently. "Never. Never anything remotely like that. We've made our fair share of mistakes, you and I. And sometimes, you're like a bull in a china shop! Admittedly this is one of your more spectacular blunders but, given time, hopefully matters may yet be put to rights".

"So ... you're not angry with me?"

"No. Not angry. Disappointed? Yes. **Very**. And that, my darling, is because I know that what you've said is true enough. That you thought you were acting in Simon's best interests". Matthew jabbed at the letter that had arrived from Ireland this very morning. "But as Tom says here, as Edith tried to tell you too, we have to accept that some people want to live their lives differently to the way we live ours. And while neither of us may approve of the choice Simon's made, as Tom says, it isn't our decision to make. It's up to Simon. He's a man grown. And in the end, the matter rests with him. All that apart, you had no business to threaten Friedrich and Edith with eviction. I know you were upset, but really! After all they've been through. I'm so very glad you took my advice and apologised. I know that can't have been easy for you".

"No, it wasn't," admitted Mary. Eating humble pie was not an experience she cared to repeat.

Matthew nodded. Then he did something which, in all the circumstances, Mary had not expected. He bent down and kissed her.

"Now, I must be off".

Remaining seated where she was, Mary watched him go. It seemed that darling Tom had the right of it; but for all that, Mary could not help but wonder if it had been one of Tom and Sybil's own children, would he still have been so sanguine about such a turn of events. She thought not. As for Friedrich and Edith, well, she had apologised, and the two sisters had come to an accommodation of sorts and an uneasy truce now prevailed between the abbey and Crawley House. But for all this, things were not as they had once been before the business of Simon, even though Mary resumed her Saturday morning rides out round the estate with young Kurt on Festus.

More to the point, despite the best entreaties Matthew could muster, Simon remained resolute.

He would not come back to Downton.

* * *

 **Autumn, 1944.**

Following the Allied landings on the beaches of Normandy, along with those in the south of France, with the invasion of Europe well underway, the Americans capturing Rome, the large scale and repeated bombing of Germany, including Berlin, and with the Russians advancing steadily ever westwards, the war in Europe with all its attendant horrors, let alone what was unfolding in the Far East, began to seem increasingly far removed, indeed very remote, from Downton, where life went on much as before. The masters and boys from St. Dominic's School finally returned to Sussex - even Mary had to admit that the abbey seemed very empty without them in residence - and with some building materials at last having been sourced, the National Trust commenced a comprehensive scheme of repairs to the north side of the house.

With Robert now having been posted to RAF Elvington, south east of York, to act as liaison officer with the two squadrons of the Free French Air Force stationed there, among whose numbers was Captain Perrault, Marie's brother, the only member of the extended Crawley family who was now genuinely at risk, was Claire, still up in London, and continuing to pursue her medical studies.

Understandably, Claire's own father, along with Friedrich, Edith, and Danny all worried about her incessantly. Nonetheless, despite the large number of people who did choose to leave the capital in the face of what came to be known as the Baby Blitz, in which Robert, before his latest posting, had played a part, by shooting down a Junkers 88 over London back in March, followed by the unleashing by Germany of the V1s and V2s, Claire took all of the ensuing destruction and mayhem in her stride. In her letters written to her family down in Devonshire, to Friedrich and Edith up in Downton, and across the sea to Danny over in Ireland, she said that, given what both she and darling Max had been through when the East End had been bombed, what they had endured together in the destruction of Exeter, she was not going to be deterred from completing her medical studies by a fresh round of bombing of the capital by the Luftwaffe. Had he been alive, Max would not have turned tail and run; he would have stayed put. And so would she, which she now proceeded to do, cocking a snook at the Germans, remaining defiant in Bloomsbury, enduring both the buzz bombs and the doodlebugs.

The war went on: France was liberated, de Gaulle arrived in Paris, the Germans were retreating on all fronts, and everyone hoped that in Europe, if not in the Far East, it would all soon be over, hopefully before Christmas, but as Matthew observed wryly to Tom, he had heard this said before, back in 1914. And in December, shortly before Christmas, the sixth of the war, Tom wrote to Matthew, asking if he had Second Sight, when the Germans counter attacked on the Western Front, in heavy snow, through the thickly forested hills of the Ardennes, in what came to be know as the Battle of the Bulge, where the Americans bore the brunt of the unexpected thrust against the Allied lines. Thankfully, eventually, the German attack faltered, then stalled, and, in the new year, as the weather improved, the Allies pressed onwards, eastwards, and into Germany.

* * *

 **Zähringerstrasse, Heidelberg, Baden, Germany, 31st March 1945.**

Given what was presently happening elsewhere in Germany, Margarethe Branson knew that, here in Heidelberg, they had been far luckier than most. Unlike other places such as neighbouring Mannheim and Ludwigshaven, both of which lay just to the north west, Heidelberg itself had escaped the relentless bombing by the British and Americans. And when, only yesterday, the town here had surrendered, thankfully, it had been to the Americans ... and not the Russians.

Of her and Fergal's three sons, Ronan, an Oberleutnant in the Luftwaffe, had been shot down over London in May 1944 and was now a POW in England. Of Aidan, who had joined the SS, and was a Hauptsturmführer, she had heard nothing, not since the camp where he was serving, a place called Auschwitz, somewhere far to the east, had been evacuated, shortly before it was over run by the Russians. That had been back in January. There were vague reports, of terrible things having happened there, but Margarethe didn't believe them, any more than she believed the stories that, after the burning of the two synagogues in the town, the Jewish population of Heidelberg, rounded up and deported to France in 1940, had been sent to their deaths somewhere also in the east. As Fergal, who knew about such things, had told her, it was all lies and propaganda, being spread by the Allies to try and discredit the Nazi regime here in Germany.

Late last autumn, their youngest boy, another Josef, just sixteen last month, in order to join the Volkssturm, and do his bit like his brothers, had lied about his age; was presently upstairs, bedridden, recovering from a wound to his left leg, sustained last December, fighting against the Americans, over in the Ardennes.

Of Fergal himself, who was presently in Berlin, like Aidan, Margarethe had had no word but he would be back, of that she was certain; he always came back to her.

* * *

 **Leeds and Liverpool Canal, passing Armley, Leeds, West Riding, Yorkshire, April 1945.**

With the British and Americans having crossed the Rhine, the Russians having captured Vienna, the Red Army fighting its way street by street into the very heart of Berlin, and now with the Americans and the Russians having met on the Elbe, the war in Europe was all but over.

Dawn was now breaking, and the mist rising wraith like from off the dirty, sluggish, grey water of the canal, as the heavily laden coal barge nosed its way slowly towards the wooden gates of the distant lock.

Ignoring the gaggle of noisy, ragamuffin urchins running along the weed grown cinders of the towpath, keeping pace with the slow moving barge, both their whistles and their cat-calls going unanswered and unheeded, the man at the tiller, who looked younger than his years, now stood up, and swept back a thick thatch of fair hair. Apart from paying no attention whatsoever to the boys, neither did the man appear even to notice the tall chimneys and the blackened brick and stonework of the woollen mills, many of which were now derelict, along with the empty wharves, the silent quays, and the rusting cranes, lining either side of the cut. Instead, as was his wont, he kept himself very much to himself. And then, he saw it, looming like a malevolent beast above the rows of grimy terraced houses: the grim bulk of the prison.

He glanced at his wristwatch and smiled. They were here and with time enough to spare.

Despite the demands made upon him by the manual labour necessary to enable their passage through the flight of locks at Bingley Five Rise, to name but one, as well as all the others, before beginning the long climb up to the summit of the canal at Foulridge, disappearing into the damp, dripping bore of the tunnel there, emerging a mile or so later through its eastern portal, just as day was breaking, they had made good time on the long journey all the way from Liverpool, wending their way across the coastal plain of Lancashire, and thence through the Pennines, over here to Leeds.

Which was just as well.

For, on this particular day, late of the Royal Army Medical Corps, and of Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, Mr. Simon Crawley had an appointment to keep.

And he had no intention, whatsoever, of being late.

* * *

 **Gloucester Terrace, Armley, later that same morning.**

In the pearl grey light of early morning, as Alec Foster stepped outside the massive studded gates of the grim, forbidding, castellated edifice that was Armley Gaol, hearing the wicket door slam shut, he looked nervously about him, half fearful that who it was he was hoping earnestly to see, would not be there. That, despite the handful of visits Simon had been permitted to make to see Alec, let alone what they had written to each other in their letters, and that so circumscribed and hedged about to make it seem perfectly innocuous to the prison warders who read every line of Alec's correspondence, when the time came, the other's nerve would have failed him.

And then, as Alec continued to stand and look about him, on the other side of the street, he now saw a young man, wearing a cloth cap, check shirt, waistcoat, and corduroy trousers, with a rucksack on his left shoulder, standing beneath a lamp post, with a teddy bear tucked in the crook of his right arm. A moment later, the self same bear raised a moth eaten paw in friendly greeting.

Alec raised his hand and crossed the street. On reaching Simon, the two of them shook hands.

"Hello," said Simon.

Alec nodded; briefly studied the other's face, then ducked his head and looked down at his feet.

"Up until I saw you, I half feared that you wouldn't be ..." His voice broke with emotion.

"Alec, will you look at me, please?" Simon asked, making deliberate use of the very same words Alec had once said to him.

Alec did as he had been asked. Slowly, he raised his head.

"What I owe you ..." he began.  
"Alec, between friends there never is any question of owing. None whatsoever. After what we've both been through, given what we mean to each other, did you really think I wouldn't be here?"

"Simon ...

"You and I, Alec ... We don't need other people. All we need ... is each other," said Simon softly.

Alec grinned broadly and nodded his head in agreement.

"So where to now then?" he asked, his voice sounding somewhat more confident.

Simon smiled; he rested his hands lightly on his friend's shoulders.

"That's for you to decide. But, only on one condition".

"Which is?"

"That wherever it is you decide to go, we do so together".

Alec smiled.

"I wouldn't have it any other way".

"Then, we'd best be off, hadn't we?" Simon grinned.

Alec nodded.

"I think we had".

And, as in bright sunlight, they set off on foot through the waking streets of Leeds, side by side, and together, from far off Simon heard again Alec's words and the question he had asked of him on a long gone Christmas Eve:

 _"Have you ever wondered if one day you might meet someone with whom you could happily spend the rest of your life?"_

Glancing sideways at Alec's profile, Simon smiled broadly.

Despite all the odds stacked against them, together, they had done just that.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, 8th May 1945.**

The war had ended.

Hitler had committed suicide.

Germany had surrendered, unconditionally.

And they were celebrating all over Europe.

 _"God bless you all. This is your victory! It is the victory of the cause of freedom in every land. In all our long history we have never seen a greater day than this. Everyone, man or woman, has done their best. Everyone has tried. Neither the long years, nor the dangers, nor the fierce attacks of the enemy, have in any way weakened the independent resolve of the British nation. God bless you all..."_

Up in London, after his radio broadcast to the nation, along with Their Majesties the King and Queen, accompanied by Their Royal Highnesses, Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret, the Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, had appeared on the balcony of Buckingham Palace before a sea of cheering crowds.

Here in Downton, the news that the war was over was met with both delight and relief, but not with euphoria. After all, victory had come at a terrible price; the memorial tablet to Cora, Dowager Countess of Grantham in the Crawley Chapel in the parish church, along with new graves dug in the churchyard, including that of darling Max, bore testimony to that. And over in Ireland, had it not been for the war, young Bobby Branson too, would still be alive. But for the war, Simon Crawley would not have been wounded, and, in all likelihood, would never have met Alec Foster, now newly released from prison over in Leeds. Nor would Friedrich, Edith, Max, and Kurt, have been forced to leave Austria, first to seek refuge in France, and thereafter here in England, at Downton. And all things being equal, which of course they were not, and never ever had been, Max also might yet be alive.

Then again, save for the war, perhaps Robert Crawley and Saiorse Branson would not have married, and now be the proud parents of four children, with their youngest, Edward James Crawley, born at Downton at the end of January. Maybe Danny Branson would not have met up once more with the girl he had fallen in love with over there in Spain during the Civil War, and their three young boys would never have been born. And nor would darling Max and Claire have met on the railway station at Wrangaton down in Devonshire. And that being so, little Josef would not now be lying fast asleep in his cot in the nursery at the top of Crawley House, watched over by his doting grandmother.

Perhaps Mary and Edith would be on better terms than they were now.

And Downton Abbey would not have passed into the care of the National Trust.

But whatever the truth of all these imponderables, one thing was certain.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, May 1945.**

The war was over.

Save that was, for a reckoning with the Japanese and which, this morning here at breakfast, Tom had said would come soon enough indeed. And, if but for a moment, setting aside Ireland's much vaunted neutrality, given what had happened to Simon, the family still had a score of its own to settle with the Japanese just as until the victory in Europe it had with the Germans, over the deaths of both dearest Cora and darling Bobby. There were rumours now circulating that the Americans intended to bring the war against Japan to a swift end by using the power of what was called the _atom bomb_.

And yet, in the very hour of the Allied victory over Nazi Germany, in their respective radio broadcasts, both Churchill and de Valera had resorted to squabbling like a pair of overgrown schoolboys and trading thinly veiled insults. On balance, Tom thought, that it would have been far wiser if Churchill, for whom he had very little time, if at all, however great a wartime leader the British thought him to have been, had not suggested that if necessary the British would have re-occupied Ireland in order to safeguard the Western Approaches during the Battle of the Atlantic.

As for de Valera, in Tom's view, a dignified silence would have been far better, rather than remarking that Churchill's statement had been _unworthy_ and then going on to allude to the old wounds extant between Great Britain and Ireland: _By resisting his temptation in this instance, Mr. Churchill, instead of adding another horrid chapter to the already bloodstained record of the relations between England and this country ..._ Would either of them ever learn? Tom thought it unlikely.

Laying aside his newspaper, Tom stared mournfully at what passed for his breakfast: a poached egg and two rounds of lightly buttered toast. Whatever the doctor in Cork had said, Sybil was taking this diet of his far too seriously.

* * *

 **Rosslare, County Wexford, Ireland, late June 1945.**

While in recent months they had exchanged photographs, neither of them had seen each other for some five years; not in fact since the summer of 1940, when they had been at Downton for Robert and Saiorse's wedding. A lifetime ago, or so it seemed. Nonetheless, even without the photographs, she would have recognised him instantly, standing there on the quayside to meet her, shading his eyes, scanning the decks of the St. Andrew, from the pier here in Rosslare, and beside him a young boy who, even from this distance Claire could see was Danny made over in miniature. Before leaving the rail, she waved her hand in friendly greeting; saw it acknowledged. A few moments later, Claire was walking down the gangway and onto the quayside below.

* * *

"Hello," he said, and gave her a perfunctory kiss on her cheek; nothing more, much as a brother might do to a sister to whom he was not especially close. Danny drew back, taking in her trim figure and smart two piece suit, not that she knew it at the time of course, as well as the young boy held fast in her arms. There was no doubting who his father had been. Even so, Danny lofted an inquisitive eye.

"Josef?"

Claire nodded.

"Of course. Who else?" She smiled. "Thank you," Claire said absent mindlessly to the steward who had deposited her battered single suitcase beside her on the quay. "And this is ..." She looked down at the little boy standing beside Danny who was studying her openly with a guileless gaze.

"Daniel. I left the other two at home, with Da and Ma. Better that way for sure. And ... it's a long journey".

"Why better? Are they that much of a handful? Frightened of meeting me perhaps?"

"No, er ... neither". Danny blushed and ducked his head. "They wanted to come but I thought it was fairer to you if I .. Less overwhelming!" He looked up and grinned.

"That was very sweet of you ... to be so thoughtful". Claire now surprised herself by reaching up and kissing Danny lightly on the cheek, while Daniel did his best to be helpful by attempting to pick up her heavy suitcase, before Danny intervened and took it from him.

"Here, son, I'll take that. The station's this way". Danny nodded towards the landward end of the stone pier, while beside them, there came a deafening blast from the whistle of the St. Andrew, startling a flock of seagulls, which now soared upwards on the wing into the cloudless afternoon sky.

* * *

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, June 1945.**

Shortly before Tom came into the bright, sunlit room, Claire, holding Josef by the hand, had picked up one of the framed photographs from off the table. Of course, she had seen it before, and in more or less the same position it occupied here, beside the fireplace, but that had been back in England, up in Yorkshire, in the Drawing Room of Crawley House. The picture in question showed three smiling boys standing together on the steps of an hotel.

On coming into what had once been the Drawing Room of the old house but which now they referred to more simply as the sitting room, seeing Claire with the photograph in her hand, Tom smiled. Hearing footsteps behind her, Claire turned.

"I hope you don't mind ..."

Tom smiled; shook his head.

"Is your bedroom all right? With the view of the sea, Sybil thought you would like ..."  
"It's lovely, thank you, Mr. Branson".

"Tom, please," he corrected her.

"And the cot?"

"Perfect, thank you".

"It was Danny's".

Tom picked up the photograph which Claire had set back in its place on the table. For a moment he said nothing, looking instead at the smiling faces of the three boys, of Danny, of Robert, and ... of Max.

"Douglas, Isle of Man, June 1936. Before the war. A lifetime ago. It's hard to believe they were all ever that young". He shook his head, seemingly in disbelief.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel of the forecourt, followed by the sound of voices. Looking up, through the window Claire saw Danny, Daniel and Tomás heading off towards the old stables, in which Danny had set up his workshop. Tom said nothing; merely followed the length of Claire's gaze.

"Would it really work, do you think?" she asked airily, seemingly to no-one in particular.

"A difficult question to be asking, for sure". Tom smiled. "But since yous have, may I give yous some advice?"

Claire turned back to him and smiled.

"Which is?"

"I think both of yous are worrying about something neither of yous can do anything about".

"You mean ghosts?"

"Perhaps," said Tom equitably.

Claire sighed.

"So what should I do?"

"Both of yous are letting yourselves be held prisoners by the past. I don't say forget it, but when one door closes, for sure another opens".

"Danny's spoken to you ..."

"And to Sybil, yes. But only in the broadest, possible terms. After all, it's up to yous. And to him. Danny's a man grown".

Claire nodded.

"Yes, he is. For sure!" She smiled; turning back to the window she saw that Danny had hoisted a laughing little Tomás onto his broad shoulders something which, towards the end of the brief time they had shared, Max had done with darling Josef. The image the scene evoked tore at Claire's heart.

"Only the two of yous can decide". Tom nodded towards Danny and two of his grandsons. "I t'ink Danny said something about going for a swim later. If it will help, Sybil and I will take care of the boys while ..."

* * *

"Don't fuss so, for sure!" exclaimed Tom petulantly, as Sybil tucked the blanket in tightly around his knees, aided in her endeavours, or so they thought, by both Daniel and Tomás who believed they were doing their bit to help _Nana_ look after _Grandpa_.  
"Now, Tom, you know what Dr. Kennedy said in Cork. Very much the same as Dr. Trevelyan told you back in Dublin. Thank you boys. Grandpa's very grateful. Aren't you, Grandpa?" Having contrived the briefest of smiles for his two adored grandsons, Tom scowled at Sybil, who merely responded by giving him a knowing smile. "And anyway, I'm not," she added.

"Yes yous are! And yous can stop your matchmaking too!" grumbled Tom peevishly. Sybil sighed; resignedly so and tucked in the last corner of the blanket around his legs. Tom was never a good patient; the more so since he had been put on a strict diet.

"I'm not doing that either. But you yourself can't deny that we haven't seen Danny this happy in ages". Sybil nodded towards where Danny and Claire were walking across the newly raked gravel in front of the house, both of them in their swimsuits and carrying rolled up towels, clearly heading for the beach down below the house. How times had changed, and with them, fashions too, thought Sybil. A man and a woman going swimming together in the sea, while only a decade or so ago, such costumes, which left very little to the imagination, would have been considered positively indecent. Here in Catholic, rural Ireland no doubt they still would be, but fortunately for Danny and Claire, Skerries Cove was private property and so safe from prying eyes.

"Maybe".

"As I said before, they're head over heels ..."  
"Sybil ..."

"Earlier on, when they were sitting out on the steps there," Sybil nodded towards the front door of the house, "they had their heads together".

Tom rolled his eyes in disbelief.

"Jaysus, woman! They were looking at the newspaper!"

"Don't you _woman_ me, Tom Branson!"

"Nana?" asked Daniel.  
"Hm?" Sybil looked down at the eldest of her grandsons who, save for his skin being slightly darker, something he had inherited from his Spanish mother, Carmen, was the image of Danny at the same age.  
"What's a Jaysus woman?"

Sybil shook her head.

Honestly!

* * *

 **Skerries Cove, County Cork, June 1945.**

"Not at all, for sure!" laughed Danny, in answer to Claire's question as to whether or not he thought her swimsuit was too revealing. "Just about right but then who am I to judge?" He smiled again at her, sitting there on the sand, her arms placed demurely about her slender body. "C'mon in, why don't yous, the water's lovely, for sure!"

At that, Claire stood up, slowly let slip her encircling arms, and walked hesitantly towards the very edge of the water where she dabbled a single toe in the sea.

"Liar! The water's freezing!"

"No it isn't".

"Yes, it is".

"Have it your own way! Come on in, Claire!"

"Be careful what you wish for," she called laughingly, the water now covered her feet and was lapping at her ankles. She had to raise her voice above the roar of the surf but never for once did she take her eyes from off his face.

"And what do I wish for, for sure?" asked Danny executing a perfect dive and re-surfacing a moment later a little further along the beach, to see that Claire had now waded into the sea, the water reaching up to her thighs.

"See, I told you; it's not so bad". He swam over to where she was now standing.  
"Perhaps".

"Have it your own way then, for sure!" chuckled Danny, swimming effortlessly back and forth in the surf but feet from where she was now standing, the water lapping just below the curve of her breasts. Watching him, Claire experienced a feeling that she had not felt for a very long time; not since Max died. She hadn't felt this carefree for a very long while.

A moment later, and he was there, standing in front of her. He smiled.

"Yous told me once ... that I never ask, or say what I mean, so ..."

Claire sensed what might be coming.

"Danny ... we're friends, isn't that enough?"

Danny smiled; gently shook his head.

"If you'd let me, I know I can be more than that".

"Danny, darling, I told you, I'm not Carmen". It was the first time she had ever called him _darling_.

"And I'm not Max. I don't pretend I am. I never have".

"Your Da said both of us have been caught by the past ..."

"So does that mean yous ... because if it does, I won't ask again".

"But he also said that when one door closes, for sure another opens ..." Claire smiled.

"Well then, will yous marry me, Claire?" Danny asked, his strong arms now warm about her, holding her close.

Claire looked up into a pair of laughing blue grey eyes, took in again Danny's thatch of dark hair, his ready smile, his manly physique, which radiated both health and vitality, saw the drops of water on his sunburned skin sparkling in the sunlight, and she knew she had her answer. In the richly woven tapestry of life, like her marriage to darling Max, it was a decision which she was never to regret.

 **Author's Note:**

Since 1885, Section 11 of the Criminal Law Amendment Act, commonly known as the _Labouchere Amendment_ , had made what was termed "gross indecency" between men a crime in the United Kingdom. This would not be repealed until the passage of the Sexual Offences Act 1967 which decriminalised homosexual acts in private between two men if both had attained the age of 21.

 _Repton_ , played by the organist in the parish church, was written by Sir Charles Hubert Hastings Parry (1848-1918) an English composer, teacher, and music historian and is the tune to which the hymn, _Dear Lord and Father of Mankind_ is sung of which there are various renditions on the Internet.

Peppercorn rent - a nominal rent well below market value for the same.

The two squadrons of the Free French Air Force based at RAF Elvington, from May 1944, played a leading role in the bombing of Germany.

What came to be known as the "Baby Blitz" (January-May 1944) - Operation Steinbock - was the last strategic air offensive mounted against Britain by the Germans during the war. The main targets were London and southern England. Claire was lucky: on the the night of 14-15 March, 162 tons of bombs were dropped on London, 54 boroughs reporting damage, among them, Bloomsbury.

V1s and V2s; long-range rockets used by the Germans to attack Britain, the vast majority of which were fired at London.

Reasons vary as to why Heidelberg was never bombed. Of its Jewish population, they were initially deported to Gurs, in southwest France, and thereafter, east, to Auschwitz. Hardly any survived. The liberation of Auschwitz, in January 1945, received little coverage in the Allied press.

Volkssturm - the German national militia, established in the last months of the war and made up of conscripts aged between 16 and 60, poorly trained and poorly equipped. Some of the conscripts were as young as 13.

Churchill's broadcast on VE Day (8th May 1945) in which he suggested that, had the military situation demanded it, Great Britain would have re-occupied Ireland, caused considerable anger in the Irish Republic. For his part, de Valera's response did much to enhance his image as the Father of the Irish Nation.


	26. Chapter 26

Five years ago, when I posted the very first chapter of _Home Is Where The Heart Is_ , never for an instant did I imagine that this tale would develop into what it has become. Eight linked stories, telling my take on the lives of the Bransons, the Crawleys, and the Schönborns, from 1918, onwards to 1945, and then beyond. In all honesty, I had intended to finish where that first story ended but, in the aftermath of its passing, along with the many kind comments I received, I was asked, what happened next to Tom and Sybil and all the rest? So, then came _Reunion_ , _The Rome Express_ , _Rain, Steam, And Speed_ , _Summer Of '39,_ _The Snow Waltz_ , _The White Cliffs Of Dover,_ and finally, _Renoir's Ghost_.

Thank you once again for reading these stories. From the readership graphs and statistics, the many kind reviews, and the Private Messages which I have received, I am aware that they have found favour all over the world.

So, now comes the final chapter of _The White Cliffs Of Dover_.

With my warmest regards and best wishes to you all.

Keep writing, reading, and reviewing.

The Irish Chauffeur

* * *

Chapter Twenty Six

Hail And Farewell

 **April 1945.**

Along with his fellow prisoners, in all some 9,000 of them, American, British, and Canadian, Lieutenant James A. Curtis of the USAAF was finally freed from Stalag Luft I at the end of April 1945, when the camp was liberated by the Red Army. In the face of the imminent arrival of the Russians, the Germans had ordered the POWs to evacuate the camp but they refused to do so. After negotiations between the Senior American Officer and the camp _Kommandant_ , so as to avoid any needless bloodshed, the guards left on their own, leaving the former prisoners to their own devices and to await the arrival of the Red Army. Thereafter, early in May, all the former POWS were evacuated from Germany by American aircraft in "Operation Revival". While the British POWs were flown directly to Britain, the Americans went first to Camp Lucky Strike, lying to the north-east of Le Havre in France, before being shipped back to the United States.

Across the Channel, over in England, up in Yorkshire, having learned, early in 1945, shortly after Edward's birth, that James was a POW somewhere in Germany, Saiorse had half-expected that with the war now over, she might hear from James again, if only to say goodbye. But in that she was to be disappointed, for when the time came, even though James came back briefly to England, before embarking on board the USS _West Point_ to sail back to the States, he did not get in touch. Indeed, Saiorse never heard from him again which, on balance, it is to be supposed, was probably best for the both of them. It is understood that James and his wife, Fay, bought a farm on the outskirts of Madison in Indiana, where it is believed, they still live to this day.

What with all the exigencies of the war, the fact that Lieutenant James A. Curtis had been driving the military jeep which had hit Max Schönborn and so had been, effectively, the cause of his death, never came to light. In fairness to James it must be said that he assumed that the man he had struck had suffered but slight injuries. After all, seeing him get up from off the road, he had no reason to assume otherwise. That James did not go back and satisfy himself that this was indeed the case, was completely unforgivable; but then, as has been remarked before, James always was possessed of an innate sense of self preservation.

* * *

 **September 1945.**

In September 1945, Oberleutnant Ronan Branson finally returned home to Heidelberg. Here, in the house on the Zähringerstrasse, he found both his mother, Margarethe, and his younger brother Josef who, thankfully, had recovered, at least more or less, from the leg wound he had sustained over in the Ardennes. However, of Aidan there was still no word. Indeed, none came, not until nearly a year had elapsed after the war had ended when it was learned that, along with thousands of others, Aidan had died in the sinking of the _Wilhelm Gustloff_ in the Baltic in January 1945. When the news of what had taken place at Auschwitz and elsewhere in the concentration camps became known, let alone the massacres perpetrated by the SS at Oradour-sur-Glane, Maillé, and Tulle, in France, along with others, Margarethe refused to believe any of it and, for the rest of her life, she continued to insist that her son, Aidan, would never have been party to such horrors.

Both Ronan and Josef Branson eventually married and had families of their own, something which, at least in part, in years to come, served to give Margarethe some solace; the more so, since her husband Fergal too never returned to Heidelberg. What became of him, no-one ever knew but it was presumed that he perished in the savage street fighting in Berlin in the dying days of the war, in April 1945.

In any event, his body was never found.

* * *

 **Autumn 1945.**

In the late autumn of 1945, Danny Branson and Claire Schönborn married in England, down in Devonshire, in St. Peter's Church, Ugborough, where as a baby Claire had been baptised and then as a child later confirmed, very close to village of Wrangaton and its railway station where they had first met, over five years ago, in June 1940; Robert having been asked by Danny to be his Best Man. Given the fact that Rob had performed the very same service for Max and Claire in September 1940, caused Tom to turn to Sybil during the service and remark that it seemed there was a kind of inevitability about the day's proceedings.

While the whole of the family had been delighted by the happy news of Danny and Claire's engagement, and duly came down to Devonshire for the wedding, it was only to be expected that when the time had come for her to do so, Claire had been more than a little nervous about telling Friedrich and Edith, as her present in-laws, that she intended to re-marry; that somehow they would see it as an unforgivable betrayal of darling Max.

However, as things turned out, Claire need not have worried.

For, Friedrich and Edith were fully in accord with her decision; not only because both of them were realists and that it made eminent sense, but because they could see also that, as with darling Max, Claire's marriage to Danny was a love match. That the groom happened to be the same dearly loved nephew in whose first marriage, by bringing Danny and Carmen together again, Edith herself had very much played a part, served merely to reinforce Edith's own view of the world: that karma played a part in everything. So, it transpired that dear Tom was not the only one to believe that, following the tragedy of Max's death, this marriage between Danny and Claire had, somehow, been predestined to occur.

The only real problem arose, and that but briefly, when, having learned what was to happen, Kurt had asked that, as Claire was now marrying Danny, would he no longer be her brother-in-law? Going down on her knees on the floor and hugging the twelve year old boy tightly to her, Claire told Kurt that it would make no difference whatsoever. And then, when Danny told Kurt that he would now be his brother-in law, even if it wasn't strictly true, young Kurt pronounced himself well satisfied with the happy turn of events.

Indeed, the sole flicker of discord in all of the proceedings took place after the wedding service was over, while the first of the photographs of the bride and groom were being taken out in the churchyard at Ugborough, when Claire's father was overheard to remark to his son Edward, albeit thankfully not within earshot of the happy couple that _"T'aint right, it ain't. Them's all bliddy furriners. First a bleedin' Jerry and now a Paddy Mick!"_

* * *

After an all too brief honeymoon, spent in Paris, which Danny had first seen briefly as a boy from the carriages of the Rome Express and then again several years later in the summer of 1939 just before the outbreak of the war, and which Claire herself had never visited, the happy couple settled at Skerries House. Thereafter, having finished her medical training over in Ireland, Claire fulfilled her heart's desire and became a doctor, in general practice in Cork, where later, in 1956, she helped to treat victims of the polio epidemic which had broken out in the city and the surrounding area, most of those who had fallen ill being young children, of whom, by now Danny and Claire had two of their own: a little girl who they called Thirza after Claire's late mother and then a little boy whom they named Patrick. In later years, Claire left general practice to work at what was then the Victoria Hospital for Women and Children on Old Blackrock Road in Cork, where, eventually, she became a Consultant, specialising in blood disorders, including haemophilia.

* * *

 **Spring 1946.**

With Danny and Claire now married and living with them at Skerries, with the house and its outbuildings fully restored, Tom and Sybil did as they had decided to do, and, in the spring of 1946, opened a small, but select hotel in that part of the mansion they did not need for use by themselves and the family. Even if the idea of the hotel had been Tom's, Sybil was the driving force behind it all coming into being and to fruition. It was well known in the family that if Sybil set her mind to something, there was no stopping her. So, it was hardly surprising that right from the very start, the enterprise thrived, as well as providing employment in a rural part of County Cork where positions were very hard to find; the more so since the destruction of the Big Houses such as Skerries, and nearby Cullen Hall once the home of the Anstruthers.

But if Sybil, who had given up her nursing, thought that with Tom having retired as Deputy Editor of the Irish Independent, he would at last take things easier, she was to be sorely disappointed. Tom never could sit still, and the restoration of the old house, once completed, together with the opening of the hotel, not to mention the presence of several of his grandchildren on hand, as he said, _to keep me young, for sure,_ seemed to give Tom a new lease of life; at least for the present, with him taking a lively interest, albeit from the sidelines, in local politics, as well as pursuing his love of history, Irish history in particular, and in the process, amassing an ever growing collection of volumes which, in its extent, so he said, and with evident pride, rivaled the size of the Small Library at Downton.

* * *

It was in this very same year of 1946 that Danny, being somewhat more patient than his father, achieved something which Tom had never been able to do, and taught Ma how to drive.

Equally, it has to be said that once Sybil had mastered the art of driving, seated behind the steering wheel, she proceeded to drive just as fast as her brother-in-law, Matthew Crawley. One day, shortly after Sybil had been let loose on her own on the roads of County Cork, and so too on its entirely innocent and equally unsuspecting population, Danny arrived back at the house from the old stables to find Da surveying, and resignedly so, the latest dent in the front bumper of the family motor and of which, Sybil steadfastly denied any knowledge. Ma, said Tom, remained adamant: the lamp post had not been there when she had parked the car, close to the English Market, on St. Patrick's Street over in Cork.

* * *

"That doesn't explain the dent, darlin', for sure," had observed Tom.

"Perhaps it moved," said Sybil airly.

"Moved?" queried Tom. "The motor?"

"Certainly not," retorted Sybil. "I remember distinctly putting on the handbrake".

"So what moved, for sure?" Tom asked, evidently mystified.

Sybil was prompt with her reply.

"The lamp post".

At that, faced with Sybil's impeccable and finely honed sense of aristocratic logic, there was, decided Tom, little point in continuing the inquisition post mortem into the dented bumper. And, it was, Tom remarked ruefully to Danny a short while later, while father and son set about removing the bumper and beating out the dent, in both their interests, let alone perhaps that of the wider world, that neither of them made any mention of the fact, at least in Ma's hearing, that while they were not allowed to do so on the circuit over in Phoenix Park up in Dublin, women had been permitted to race at Brooklands in England since 1932.

* * *

As for Danny, and Dermot, who, when he turned eighteen, went into partnership with his brother, their motor business prospered, not only because Danny, under Tom's careful tutelage, had become an even better mechanic than had been his father, but also because of the combination of his good looks and winning charm, something which he inherited from his parents. Initially, it was merely a motor repair business, but, gradually, there developed too a road haulage side of things which, as here in Ireland, as elsewhere, the railway system began to close down, and the roads were improved, became the mainstay of the company. In no time at all, or so it seemed, the green liveried fleet of Branson lorries with their orange and white lettering - for Erin - eventually became a common sight on roads throughout all the counties of the Republic, as well as also across the border in the north.

And later still, when the business expanded yet further, this time into air transport, needing someone who knew all about how to fly a plane, Danny had to look no further than his cousin, Robert Crawley. Together, the two of them embarked upon a very fruitful and lucrative partnership, trading under the name of _Branson & Crawley Air Freight. _To begin with they had but two aircraft, a pair of Handley Page Halifax C8s acquired secondhand from the RAF, and at a good price too - Danny, with the benefit of expert advice from Rob, drove a hard bargain with the Air Ministry. However, in the fullness of time, these two secondhand aircraft were duly replaced, and grew into a fleet of a dozen newly built cargo planes.

* * *

At the very outset of their enterprise, even before the necessary contracts and papers had been drawn up - by Matthew - both Danny and Rob decided that their new company needed a slogan; something with which people would not only readily identify, but also remember.

"So, what we want is some kind of logo. Give it some thought, for sure, Rob?" asked Danny leaning across the billiards table one evening after dinner, when he and Claire along with all the children were staying at Downton.

Robert smiled.

"There's no need".

"What do you mean, _no need_?" Danny sounded doubtful. Having taken his shot, he straightened up.

"None at all," replied Rob. "As I understand it, what we are proposing is an air service which flies anything for anyone, from anywhere and to anywhere, provided that there's a place from which to take off and to land on. Serving one and all, if you follow my meaning ..."

As the penny suddenly dropped, Danny's smile broadened into a grin. And which, was how, with a definite nod to dearest Max, the logo of _Branson & Crawley Air Freight_ came to be:

 _All For One_

 _And One For All_

And, as a result of his business acumen and flair, in later years, Danny Branson became one of Ireland's very first millionaires.

* * *

At least to begin with, Mary was somewhat sniffy about it all.

In her view, going into what she termed "trade" was not considered either acceptable or indeed respectable, until that was, Matthew, who since the National Trust had taken over the running of much of the estate, these days had more time upon his hands, chanced to begin researching the antecedents of the Crawley family. What he found out caused him considerable amusement in that, back in the fifteenth century, the basis for the family's subsequent wealth and prosperity had been the wool trade. Thereafter, if Mary was wont to cast any further aspersions on Tom and Sybil's hotel or Danny and Robert's burgeoning commercial activities, Matthew had but to casually make mention of the word _sheep_ to remind Mary that as her own grandmother, the Dowager Countess had once pithily remarked, _No family is ever what it seems from the outside._

* * *

Of Danny and Carmen's three boys, when he turned eighteen, Daniel, at the invitation of Colonel Blantyre's family, went out to work for them on their estate on Madeira, thus resuming the Branson family's connection with the island which had been broken by Danny's return to Ireland, following the death of Carmen. In due course Daniel married a local girl and, along with his wife and family, lives on the island, not far from Funchal. Tomás followed in the footsteps of his grandfather, Tom, and went, at least initially, into journalism. Eventually, he moved to London, to pursue a highly successful career in publishing. For his part, Rober' eventually joined his father and his Uncle Dermot in the road haulage business.

* * *

 **Summer 1945.**

In the late summer of 1945, for Friedrich and Edith, had come the sad news that Rosenberg had been looted and burned by Soviet troops. While much had been lost, much still remained, as Friedrich still had property in Switzerland and La Rosière had survived the war virtually unscathed. So, with the death of Max, and what had been their home in Austria gone for ever, with young Kurt now aged twelve, and there being still a lingering distance on the part of Mary towards Edith over the business of Simon, the Schönborns decided that it was in their interests that they should settle abroad, in their case in France, returning to live at La Rosière on the banks of the Loire.

And so, for the next decade, between both of them working on several excavations out in the Middle East, along with Friedrich's various academic commitments, he and Edith spent their time fully restoring the château which, like Downton, they eventually opened to the public in the summer months. With them to La Rosière also had come Hope, who lived out her days quietly beside the gently flowing waters of the Loire, not that far from the final resting place of RMS _Lancastria_ off the French coast close to St. Nazaire, from where, taking Hope with them, Edith and Kurt had fled south to the Spanish border back in the summer of 1940, while Friedrich and Max had escaped to safety in England.

* * *

In due course, Kurt finished his schooling in France and then went on to study law at the Sorbonne in Paris, became a lawyer and eventually, an MEP. Now married, he lives at La Rosière, with his French wife, Hannah, whose Jewish parents and elder brother all died at Auschwitz. Miraculously, Hannah and her younger brother, Stefan, survived. Kurt and Hannah have five children: three boys, the two elder, Heinrich and Hans, being identical twins, and two girls. Obviously, as Kurt himself would no doubt freely admit, the talk he had all those years ago with his mother, Edith, in the garden of Crawley House, about the how and the why of babies, proved more than satisfactory.

* * *

And as for Josef, having gone to school first in Ireland, and then over in England, making annual trips across the Channel to France with his mother Claire to see his grandparents at La Rosière, he went on to study medicine at Vienna University, one of the oldest universities in the German speaking world. While Josef came home to Ireland during his long vacations, when he was older he often went on his own to stay at La Rosière, first with his grandparents, and latterly with both Uncle Kurt and Aunt Hannah.

* * *

 **Tulle, Limousin, France.**

Despite the entreaties made by Captain Perrault of his own parents, his niece Marianne, Robert's presumed illegitimate daughter, did not learn the identity of the man who it was assumed was her father for many years: not in fact until after the death of both her maternal grand parents who, with their dislike of all foreigners, insisted it be kept it from her, telling her instead that her father had been a member of the Resistance who had died bravely, fighting against the Boches. Whether or not Marie had deceived him, and while there was indeed no proof that Robert was Marianne's father, nonetheless, Rob did what he had told Saiorse he intended to do, and established a trust fund to provide monies for Marianne's education and her future, in lasting memory of a very brave woman: her mother, Marie.

In later years, when Marianne herself grew to womanhood, and had learned the truth of what had happened, she wrote to Robert to thank him for the monies he had set aside for her education and other needs. Thereafter, with the full knowledge of both her uncle, and of Saiorse, for a while they wrote backwards and forwards to each other on several occasions, exchanging photographs and so forth, but, eventually, the correspondence grew desultory and then languished altogether. Too much time had elapsed for there to be any meaningful relationship, if indeed there had ever been a blood tie in the first place.

They never met.

In the end, perhaps, it was for the best.

* * *

 **Spring 1948.**

In the spring of 1948, accompanied by Matthew, David now aged eighteen and engaged to Rebecca, set sail for the Far East, bound for Singapore, embarking in Southampton, on board the P&O liner S. S. _Otranto_ , to try and ascertain what had become of David's aunt and uncle, following the Japanese occupation of Malaya. What they found, eventually, was a plantation in ruins, with no trace of its erstwhile owners whom,along with many other European civilians, men, women, and children, it had to be presumed, had perished at the hands of the Japanese, in circumstances which, in all likelihood, would probably never, ever, be known.

And, with the Emergency in Malaya already beginning, there was nothing left for Matthew and David to do but to return home to England. Not that David seemed too disconsolate. He had never been especially close to either his uncle or his aunt and regarded Matthew and Mary far more in _locus parentis_. David and Rebecca married the following year and settled down in Suffolk where, with monies from the trust fund established by his godfather, they too bought a farm, which proved a very successful venture. It was in 1958, while on a visit to see her latest little nephew, that Emily, who had retained her mother Mary's interest in both horses and riding, met her future husband, Andrew, a neighbour of both David and Rebecca's, who owned a small stud close to Newmarket.

* * *

 **Spring 1949.**

In 1949, having taken Edith's advice soundly to heart, and with her full knowledge as to their whereabouts, Alec and Simon likewise settled in France; in their case far to the south, making their home in the beautiful old town of St. Paul de Vence, not far from Nice, and with its views both of the Alps and the distant Mediterranean. Here, Alec earned his living as an artist, and Simon from the pensione which they opened together. The warmth of the Midi served to work wonders for Simon's bad knee as, in the years after they settled here, he all but regained full use of it save for an occasional twinge now and then; which Alec insisted always presaged rain, and if it occurred in the morning, before he went down to the boulangerie for fresh bread or else to the market, meant that Alec then took an umbrella with him.

And although, save for the odd grunt, he seemed disinclined to say anything on this, or indeed any other subject, it is to be assumed that dear old Oscar enjoyed the heat and the warmth too; seated in the sunshine, in what was his customary place, on the window sill of Alec and Simon's bedroom, over-looking the bright green foliage of the vines and the vivid yellow of the sunflowers.

While in later years Edith and Mary came to a far better accommodation over what Mary still saw as an unforgivable betrayal in the matter of Simon, the rift between the two sisters was never properly healed; the more so since during the 1950s, Friedrich and Edith had Simon and Alec to visit them at La Rosière on several occasions. And, when the Schönborns travelled south to visit friends in Antibes, they stayed as family with both Simon and Alec at the pensione in St. Paul de Vence. Whatever Mary might privately have thought, down the years Edith did her very best to have Simon agree to return to Downton but since his mother steadfastly refused to meet with Alec, Simon was obdurate. His life was here in France, with Alec. And if Alec was not welcome at Downton, then so be it.

* * *

With Sybil and all of their children at his bedside, Tom Branson died of heart failure, at Skerries House, in the cold, snowy winter of 1951. "A grand life, darlin', for sure, but without yous, it wouldn't have been worth the livin'," were his last words to her. Understandably, Tom's death hit all of the family hard, but especially Sybil who, while she lived, visited Tom's quiet grave in the tiny graveyard at Skerries, each and every day.

* * *

Shortly before the bloody revolution in Iraq, which overthrew the Hashemite monarchy there in 1958, while Friedrich and Edith were both excavating an archaeological site close to Palmyra, in Syria, Friedrich himself suffered a fatal heart attack. Now widowed, her only solace being that Friedrich had died doing what he loved most, excavating a new archaeological site, Edith accompanied his body home to France. She survived him by just over a year, dying at La Rosière, in the autumn of 1959. Both Edith and Friedrich lie buried in the chapel within the grounds of the château.

* * *

As more and more of the day to day running of that part of the Downton estate which remained in the hands of the Crawley family, in all some ten thousand acres, devolved upon Robert, and with most of the landed estates which once bordered Downton now broken up and sold, with the ending therefore of much of what had been their social round in the county, Matthew and Mary travelled extensively; principally down to Suffolk to see both David and Rebecca and Emily and Andrew, or else up to London, to attend both the theatre and the ballet, over to Ireland to see Tom and Sybil, as well as sailing on board RMS _Queen Elizabeth_ from Southampton to New York, having renewed contact with the Levinsons.

* * *

In 1960, Matthew's long held love of speed finally caught up with him, when, while out driving Robert's Aston Martin DB4, the first mass produced car capable which, it was said, was capable of going from nought to one hundred miles an hour in under thirty seconds, and which at his time of life Matthew had no business to be driving, on a narrow country road, on a sharp left hand bend, he lost control of the car, having swerved to avoid, of all things, a bouquet of pheasants. Given Matthew's detestation of shooting, that he swerved to avoid running into the birds was hardly surprising. Sadly, this time, there was no field gate through which he could make a successful escape.

* * *

On his father's death, Robert and Saiorse became earl and countess of Grantham. The birth of another son, Edward James in January 1945, ended their partial estrangement during the war and thereafter neither of them ever strayed again. As Saiorse was often wont to remark, there was no truth, none whatsoever, in the old adage that the grass was always greener on the other side of the fence when, in reality, all that made it seem so, was a trick of the light. Having entered into partnership with Danny and gradually taking over more of the running of the estate from his father, Robert had his hands full; as indeed did Saiorse with four children, and the demands made upon her by virtue of her social position as countess of Grantham and the numerous charities of which she was patron.

* * *

Much loved by her children and her many grandchildren, Sybil herself died peacefully in her sleep in December 1961, ten years to the very day on which Tom had died, at Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland. Greatly mourned by all of her family, she was buried next to Tom in the quiet graveyard there, within both sight and sound of the sea which here, as at Blackrock, she loved so much.

* * *

Akin to her regal namesake, Queen Mary, who steadfastly refused to meet Wallis Simpson, now Duchess of Windsor, the wife of her eldest son the former Edward VIII, Mary would not meet Alec. That being so, Simon would not meet with her. Both could be equally implacable. So, save for birthday good wishes, photographs, and so forth, communicated by an intermediary, either Edith or Matthew, there matters stood. Accepting that Simon was lost to her irrevocably, Mary consoled herself by taking pleasure in her other children and delighting in all of her grandchildren, especially those born to David and Rebecca.

As for Mary herself, she remained the living embodiment of an aristocratic way of life which, to all intents and purposes, had long since vanished for ever, until her passing, which came in the late spring of 1963.

An era had truly ended.

* * *

 **Parish Church, Downton, Yorkshire, England, June 1963.**

Just after midday, in a cloud of dust and petrol fumes, the cream and maroon motor coach belonging to the West Yorkshire Road Car Company of Harrogate, replete with the latest load of tourists bound for the abbey, passed through the village. Robert Crawley, seventh earl of Grantham, referred to such summer visitors as _grockles_ , a word which he had learned from his sister-in-law, Dr. Claire Branson. The occupants of the charabanc, some with cameras poised, were already looking eagerly from the large windows of the coach to catch their very first glimpse of the ancestral pile which, long since given into the care of the National Trust, had been home to the earls of Grantham for the past five centuries. In their passing, the _grockles_ paid little attention, if at any at all, neither to those gathered together here today in the warm sunshine outside the south porch of the church with its newly restored spire, nor to the Memorial Garden close by, with its oak seats and rose beds, which marked the site of the old Dower House.

Culled by the Beeching Axe, the branch line from Ripon had closed the previous summer, so those attending the Memorial Service here in the parish church in Downton, for Mary, Dowager Countess of Grantham, who had died earlier in the year, had no alternative but to arrive at Downton either by private motorcar or else by taxi. The Memorial Service brought together both erstwhile friends and many, albeit not all, of the widely scattered members of the Crawley family. Most noticeable of those absent was Simon who, since that day back in February 1945, when he had left Downton, had never returned, but who was known to be living somewhere in the south of France, along with his chum, Alec Foster.

* * *

Nonetheless, among those present, standing here in the churchyard, chatting in the bright sunshine, over from Ireland, were Danny and Claire Branson who had brought with them Danny's stepson, Josef, now aged twenty, fit and healthy, an avid rugby player, and so much the image of his late father, that it could have been Max standing here beside them. Close by, watched attentively by Alexander and Sorcha, their mother Saiorse, countess of Grantham, was talking with Kurt and his wife, while their sister Aili was becoming better acquainted with Heinrich, or was it Hans, it was difficult to tell the two of them apart, Kurt and Hannah's eldest boys, and Edward was doing likewise with Josef who was but a couple of years older than himself.

* * *

Behind them in the church, as others who had attended the Memorial Service continued to file out into the warm sunshine, the organist was in his element, playing a succession of well-known tunes by way of. And it was now as he began _Repton_ , that something totally unexpected happened. Looking down the church path to ascertain whether or not the cars were there to take one and all back up to the abbey, to the side of the house where the family still lived, Robert now saw an unfamiliar motor drawing to a stop. A moment later, two men clambered out, and made their way through the lytch gate.

"Who on earth ..." began Robert. Now, as heads began to turn, and people to point and whisper, it was with a distinct sense of shock that, with the music behind him in the church soaring to a crescendo that Robert realised who it now was striding confidently up the churchyard path towards him; a bareheaded, sunburned man, with a ready smile, who walked without a limp, while beside him there walked another, whom Robert did not recognise.

"Simon!"

"Hello, Rob". Simon cocked an ear and then nodded his obvious appreciation as the chords of the tune died away.

"You look very well, I must say. Better late than never!"

"Yes, sorry about that. We had a puncture on the road just outside Harrogate, otherwise we'd have been here in time for Mama's service".

"How did you ..."  
"How did I know? Kurt told me. Aunt Edith had our address and before she died, she passed it on to him. Look, I know I should have come home here to Downton long before now. Father wanted me to, and Alec told me I should do so, many times. But after what Mama did, I just couldn't bring myself to ..." As Simon's voice faltered, Robert moved swiftly forward, hugging his brother to him in a tight embrace.

"I know, I know. But you're here now. That's what matters!"

Standing beside Max's grave, the two brothers shook hands firmly, were joined a moment later by Rebecca and Emily both of whom were no less delighted than Robert had been in welcoming home their brother: hugging and kissing Simon profusely.

"And there's someone I would like all of you to meet. This ... this is my ... friend, Alec Foster," said Simon, now turning to the man standing apart but a short distance away and who, so far, had taken no part in the happy reunion between Simon, his brother, and his two sisters.

Now was the time to bury the past forever.

Watched by all of them, Robert immediately held out his hand, which Alec grasped and shook in friendly greeting.

"Welcome to Downton. I must say I'm very pleased to see both Simon and you looking so well".

"I'm very pleased to be here". Alec smiled.

And that was it.

A simple handshake.

A family no longer divided.

And with Alec now having been introduced to both of Simon's sisters, while he stood talking with Rebecca, Emily, and Andrew, Simon and David began the long overdue business of renewing their old friendship.

* * *

Danny shaded his eyes and looked across the road, over to where, close to the Memorial Garden, a second cream and maroon liveried coach was presently disgorging its occupants, those who had already visited the abbey, now being left to their own devices until it was time for them to depart from Downton: to wander around the village at their leisure, in and out of the shops, buying ice creams and postcards, or maybe having a drink in the bar of the Grantham Arms.

Perhaps even partaking of the fare on offer in what had once been the village forge, now much altered, and called _Lady Mary's Tea_ _Room,_ with its chintz curtains, mock Tudor beams, Formica topped tables, cheap crockery, paper serviettes, and over priced cakes. Every time he saw it, while undoubtedly well intentioned, the name always made Robert chuckle; having been bestowed upon the enterprise by its owners, out of respect to the late Dowager Countess of Grantham, singularly unaware of the fact that dearest Mama would never have been seen dead in such a ghastly place.

* * *

Two middle aged women from off the second coach, both of them deep in conversation with each other, passed close by to where Danny and Rob were sitting, seated on the top of the low stone wall of the churchyard, waiting for their wives, who were presently making their farewells to the rector.

"... and that's what she did, Beryl, ran off with the family's chauffeur! Least, that's what the guide up at the abbey told me.

"Well I never!"  
"Caused a proper old scandal at the time it did. The guide said her father cut her off, without a penny".

"Quite right too!"

"Obviously no better than she ought to have been then!" exclaimed Mavis.

"I wonder what she ever saw in him?" asked Beryl.  
"Who?"

"The youngest daughter ... Lady Sybil ... what she saw in the chauffeur".

"The guide said he was Irish".

"Irish? Oh, well that explains it then, Mavis. They've always got their eye to the main chance, that lot!"

"I'm not so sure. I expect there was more to it than that. Still, after all this time, I don't suppose we'll ever know".

"Suppose not. What about a cup of tea? There's a tea room over there".

"Good idea, love".

Still talking the two women moved onward, on along the cobbled street, as with sunlight glinting on polished chrome, the Lambrettas and Vespas festooned with mirrors, and with white-wall tyres, a group of Mods in Mohair suits, smart shoes, and pressed shirts, on brightly painted motor scooters, roared throatily through the village, no doubt bound for Scarborough over on the coast.

* * *

Danny smiled and shook his head in disbelief.

"I wonder what they'd make of all of this, for sure?"

He rose to his feet, spread his hands expansively and then jabbed his thumb, first at the fleet of rapidly disappearing scooters, at the gaggle of day trippers in their summer attire, wandering up and down the High Street, and lastly at the two women, still nattering nineteen to the dozen, no doubt about Lady Sybil and her family's Irish chauffeur, now standing on the corner beside Crawley House, long since sold, and which, these days, was an establishment offering Bed and Breakfast.

"Who?" asked Rob, now also standing.

"Your parents, Uncle Friedrich, Aunt Edith, Da, Ma, dearest Max ..."

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, later that same day.**

While the house and gardens had closed to the paying public several hours earlier, there was no denying that in the rays of the setting sun, the abbey, long since fully restored to its former glory by the National Trust, looked absolutely magnificent; the sunlight glinting off the glass of the windows and bathing the ochre coloured stonework in a warm eventide glow.

With supper at last over, and with the furniture moved aside, the youngsters in the family had set up a gramophone down in the hall, a part of the house to which the family did not, these days, usually have access, and from where there now came the unmistakable sound of Chubby Checker belting out the lyrics of _Let's Twist Again_ :

 _Come on everybody clap your hands_

 _Ahhh you're looking good_

 _I'm gonna sing my song and you won't take long_  
 _We gonna do the twist and it goes like this_

 _Come on let's twist again like we did last summer_

 _Yea, let's twist again like we did last year_  
 _Do you remember when things were really hummin'_  
 _Yea, let's twist again, twistin' time is here_

 _Round 'n around 'n up 'n down we go again_  
 _Oh baby make me know you love me so again_  
 _Twist again like we did last summer_  
 _Come on twist again, like we did last year ..._

Everyone in the hall gathered round to applaud, clap, and whistle loudly as, needing little by way of encouragement, both Sorcha and Josef took to the floor to perform an impromptu, spirited rendition of the twist, in which all the youngsters joined, the resultant din and mayhem threatening to shake the old house to its very foundations.

"As I said to you earlier, after the service, down there in the churchyard, what on earth would they make of all of this?" laughed Danny, setting down his brandy glass on the table beside him in the upper gallery and leaning forward on the bannister rail, in order so as to obtain a better view of the happy proceedings taking place below them on the floor of the hall.

Now, it was probably nothing more than a draught, perhaps from either an open window or else a door, but from somewhere, apparently quite close at hand, something like a sigh seemed to drift through the balmy air of the summer's evening.

And, if only but for a moment, standing beside Danny and Rob, unseen in the shadows, there were now others here too looking down with gentle detachment on the lively scene unfolding in the hall below; among them, a slightly diffident Englishman with a penchant for speed, and an elegantly coiffured dark haired woman with a flawless ivory complexion; a sunburned Austrian and an Englishwoman, both dressed identically in white shirts, with serviceable breeches, and knee length boots, and beside them, a handsome, sandy haired young man. Close by too, there stood a pretty dark haired nurse accompanied by a smiling Irishman, with an endearing lop-sided grin.

" _It's awfully middle class"._

 _"Oh, I don't know, I rather think ..."  
"Trust me, Matthew, it is"._

 _"So then, will you teach me?_ _"_

 _"Wenn Sie es wünschen. If you wish it"._

" _Un pour tous et tous pour un"_.

 _"I'm ready to travel and you're my ticket ..."_

" _I don't suppose_ ..."

* * *

With Chubby Checker having ceased his warblings, and now, with the record having come to an end, the music, if so it could be called, faded away.

"What did you just say?" asked Robert, evidently mystified.

Now turning to face his cousin, Danny shrugged dismissively and shook his head.

"For sure, I didn't".

Robert smiled broadly.

"Well then ... But as to your question, the one you asked earlier, what would they make of it all? Who knows? But maybe, in years to come, some day, somewhere, someone will tell our story".

 **The End**

 **Author's Note:**

USS _West Point._ Built for the United States Lines as the transatlantic liner SS _America_ , she was requisitioned by the United States Navy in May 1941, reverting to her original name and purpose in 1946.

While being used to evacuate German civilians, men, women, and children, as well as military personnel, along with both sick and wounded, from Gotenhafen in East Prussia, the _Wilhelm Gustloff_ , a former liner, was sunk in the Baltic Sea by a Soviet submarine in January 1945. Of those on board, nearly 10,000 died - the greatest loss of life caused by the sinking of a single ship in maritime history and a long ignored tragedy.

The villages of Oradour-sur-Glane and Maillé, along with the town of Tulle, were all witness to terrible atrocities carried out by the SS against French civilians in Occupied France.

The Emergency in Malaya - a conflict fought between Commonwealth troops and Malayan Communist guerrillas 1948-60.

"The Beeching Axe" - was a misguided attempt, pursued in the 1960s, to try and make the nationalised British railway system pay its way, by closing down swathes of lines and stations which were alleged to be unprofitable. Named after Dr. Richard Beeching, Chairman of the British Railways Board, the scheme was a complete failure, and left large areas of the country bereft of a railway service.


End file.
